


Shark Attack

by RobotMeatball



Series: Get Through It [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Changing POVs, Drinking, Explicit Language, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unresolved Sexual Tension, established relationships - Freeform, jean is a pro gamer, minor eremin - Freeform, reiner is a g
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobotMeatball/pseuds/RobotMeatball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco and Jean try to help Reiner and Bert hold it together after Bert is raped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's tearing. It keeps freaking tearing.

Listen, okay: Reiner Braun is competent as fuck. He called two weeks in advance to reserve the best table at Jean's favorite pub, flew Marco in from London, and made some bomb ass chocolate amaretto cupcakes with cherry cream cheese frosting. He's got this. He is the Party _Master_. Struggling a little with wrapping presents doesn't make him any less of a g.

Forty minutes later, the table is littered with scraps of paper and crinkled knots of scotch tape. Reiner's sighing into his hands when Bert gets home from his afternoon class, pausing, as always, to toe off his shoes and lock the door before he joins Reiner in the kitchen. Reiner lifts his head, breath catching in his throat. Bert's wearing a new shirt. It's a collared black polo with a wide stripe of white over the chest, absolutely freaking gorgeous on him, and Reiner pulls him close to kiss his stomach just beneath the bow of his ribcage.

"Hello, Mr. Braun," he says, voice muffled against Bert's abdomen.

"Hello, Mr. Hoover," Bert returns, smiling. He swings his satchel off his shoulder onto the floor and runs his fingers gently through Reiner's hair. "Smells good in here."

"Thanks. I made the cupcakes. I set a few aside for you."

"Um, I'm not sure you should reward me for being so characteristically avoidant."

"You've got astronomy tonight, and you already paid your social dues." It's true; Bert took Jean out for a quiet dinner earlier that week. Reiner feels a warm rush of pride. Bertolt is a little bolder every day, a little brighter and more comfortable, and all of their friends notice and respect that progress. Exactly no one expects him to attend a surprise party at a dive bar. Reiner kisses the back of Bert's hand, admiring the engagement ring there; a fat, creamy pearl suspended in gleaming white gold. "You're great. Did you know that?"

"News to me," says Bert, blushing. Grasping for a change of subject, his gaze falls to the mess on the table. "What is all this?"

"Oh." Reiner groans. "I don’t want to talk about it."

"Was that a _new_ roll of wrapping paper?"

"You're talking about it."

Bert shifts through the debris, finds the blocky parcel jammed into a crumpled sleeve of paper, and slides it closer to examine the workmanship. "Hmm. Well, it is a well-known fact."

"What is?"

"That white boys can't wrap."

Reiner gapes at him, delighted. "Fuck you."

Bert's laughter is a rare, rich thing. He takes a tentative seat in Reiner's lap, self-consciously supporting most of his weight with his legs, relaxing only when Reiner tugs on his hips and encourages him to sit properly. "Here, see. You're over-thinking it." Bert begins folding over the ragged edges of the paper with quick, deft fingers. Makes it look so damn easy. When all the wrinkles are tugged smooth, he seals the seams with tiny squares of tape. Miraculously, they hold.

"Oh my god, you're magic," says Reiner.

"I am so lucky you're impressed by my mundanity." Bertolt presses the bow into place, artistically off-center, then pauses. "Oops. I forgot to look at what you got him."

"It's a Razer Naga."

"A what?"

"A Razer Naga."

"I don't know what that is, Reiner."

"Oh, it's a really good gaming mouse. He threw his last one at Eren after a tourney and it, like, shattered against the side of his head. Naturally, Eren was uninjured." Reiner grins at the memory. He bumps one of Bert's socked feet with his own. "What was your present?"

Bert sighs. "I got him a book that Marco had just finished reading. He mentioned wanting to have something to talk to him about; something, quote, 'fancy and academic,' end quote. It's historical fiction. Ugh. He's so hard for me to shop for."

"That sounds thoughtful."

The corners of Bert's lips turn up shyly. "I think he liked it."

"I mean, you could write 'Marco' on a Post-it note and slap it on a used tissue and Jean would probably frame it."

"Word. Are you picking him up from the airport?"

"Nah, Sasha's got him."

"Guess that means I have you for another few hours, then."

Bert pushes the chair back from the table, stands, and turns. He stares straight into Reiner's eyes as he straddles him, his beautiful legs spread wide. Reiner grips his waist. Leans forward to kiss him. Their mouths make soft, moist sounds together, and when Bertolt pulls back, his lips are wet and red and Reiner aches to run his thumb between them.

"I never knew I could be this happy," says Bert simply.

"I never knew I could be his horny," Reiner replies, and Bert chuckles, pressing one palm to the bulge in Reiner's jeans as he tilts forward to kiss him again. 

Sometimes they argue about who fell in love first, but it was something that was always there, and spent far too much time unaddressed. They began dating eight years after they met, just in time for junior prom. Reiner had kissed Bert's temple, pinned a rosebud to his pajama top, and fallen asleep with him on the sofa in front of the TV. Their relationship now is uncomplicated, aflame. They hunger for one another even when they're in the same room, and Reiner never knows what'll set off those pangs of longing—a chord or a color or a stray sock, the smell of Bert's shampoo, his look of concentration when he sorts the laundry.

As a child, Bert was morose, painfully withdrawn. It had taken years to hear his laughter, even longer for him to trust anyone with his opinions. Bert uncomplainingly drank the mixed fruit juice Reiner poured him every morning for six months before he admitted that he hated oranges. It twists Reiner's gut thinking about the beautiful voice Bert has always had, and the people or experiences that convinced him that it wasn't worth sharing.

He doesn't talk about his past. Neither of them do.

What matters now is that his fiancé has learned to vent, tease, and even scold (the first time he sighed about Reiner's dirty sneaker prints in the living room was the last time Reiner dared to wear shoes in the apartment). Bert has lunch with Armin every Monday and Wednesday. He accepts occasional invites to the movies. God, there was even that glorious, silly day when Bert decided to peel the envelope glue off of a bill and use it to line the toilet seat. Reiner had sat down without looking, nearly shat himself in surprise, then laughed himself to tears.

 _More of this, please!_ he'd called through the bathroom door.

Bert had laughed too. _More glue on your ass cheeks?_

_More of the brat I know and love._

The glue is still there, disgustingly.

In the kitchen here, sitting nearly chest to chest, Reiner looks over Bert's shoulder to beam at his own engagement ring. Independently, they'd both gotten each other pearls, and Reiner's is catching the early afternoon light as he strokes Bert's face.

"I love you so much," Bert says suddenly.

It always blindsides Reiner when Bert says it directly—because what has Reiner done to deserve such an incredible person? This admission is usually a prelude, an opening door, so he waits, heart thumping wildly in his chest.

"Thank you for being so good to me," Bert continues, breath hot against Reiner's throat. "Thank you for being patient, and kind, and for not making me feel small when I'm scared."

 _I will kill anyone who has ever made you feel small. I would die before I hurt you._ But Bert is the one who uses words well when it really matters, for the people who are truly listening, and Reiner fumbles. "Thanks for—all of it. For being my world."

And at least he knows how to kiss Bert, open-mouthed and certain so that Bert knows he means it. He tongues the soft seam of his lips and lets out a slow, happy breath when Bert parts them to accommodate him. His hand closes around the back of Reiner's neck.

"What do you want to do, baby?" Reiner asks, voice husky.

"I think you know," Bert says. His eyes are hazy. 

He clambers to his feet, and the two of them stare at each other for a long, electrified moment before they both break for the TV in the living room. Reiner gets there first, hip-checking Bert into a wall and vaulting over the back of the couch. "What now?" he crows.

Behind him, Bert whines. Then whines again. Reiner tries to ignore it, but—goddamn it, what if he's actually _hurt_ this time?—and he cranes around reluctantly, giving Bert the perfect angle from which to snap the remote out of his hand.

"Thanks, sweetheart," says Bert. He hurdles the sofa too, right into Reiner's lap, soundly crushing his balls. "Oh, shit, sorry!"

"Ball-breaker," Reiner squeaks.

"Here, I'll kiss it all better—"

They end up getting frisky anyway, the television, ignored, sputtering snow behind them.

*

"I could just quit," says Jean for about the fortieth time that evening. "Could just deactivate my accounts, give Jaeger my setup, and catch the first flight to Italy."

"Marco's not in London?" asks Reiner, frowning as he follows Jean out of the café.

"Visiting his grandma in Florence."

Crap. That meant that Marco had paid his own way to Heathrow, where Reiner had arranged for his flight back to the States. Well, that was Marco for you. If he spontaneously burst into flames, he'd probably insist on treating the passersby for smoke inhalation before he stopped, dropped, and rolled. Reiner grins to himself. Damn, has he missed that little bastard-saint. He lengthens his stride, trying to urge Jean faster along the sidewalk, but Jean is dragging his feet both literally and metaphorically.

"You're depressing the fuck out of me," says Reiner, sighing.

"It's my lack of party. I'll cry if I want to."

"The first step is actually talking to Marco about all this, you know."

"But my career—" he groans, makes air quotes. "' _Career_ —'"

"It is a career, bro. Own it. And they do have the internet in Europe."

"Yeah, but their gaming scene is shit." Jean swallows hard, kicking at a clump of weeds sprouting up from between two paving stones. "And—" here it is, the real issue, "—there's no way he would want me there, anyway. He's so busy being—Marco. Did you know that I actually invited him down here this weekend? He literally laughed out loud. Fucking pathetic. You and Bert are the only people who even remembered my birthday, despite Jaeger's being a whole eight days ago. What makes him so fucking special?"

Reiner turns his head away to smile. They've been planning this party for almost a month. Stalwartly ignoring Jean for the entire week, of course, was Eren's idea, and Reiner is grateful they're all ending the silent treatment tonight—Jean's in desperate need of a pick-me-up. Every member of the old gang sans Marco and Jean have significant others now, and these days there's the added sting of Bert and Reiner's engagement and Eren and Armin's twelve year—yes, fucking _twelve year_ —anniversary. They've been together since they were freaking thirteen. If Marco and Jean could just get their shit sorted out, their whole group could get started on the happily-ever-afters.

"Whatever," Jean mutters to himself, reading the exasperation in Reiner's expression.

"You whatever," says Reiner. He pats Jean on the back, doesn't comment on how Jean leans into the touch.

They finally reach the pub. Jean's pale eyes glisten, picking up the orange and pink light from the neon signs. He snuffles into his jacket sleeve and takes another sip from his takeout coffee. Reiner studies it apprehensively. That's a mess waiting to happen.

"Hey," he says. "No outside drinks."

"I give such a huge shit, Reiner," Jean says without inflection. "Such a massive, steaming mountain of shit."

"Well, then—uh, lemme have a sip."

"Fuck you. Get your own."

"You're gonna pay for that in like two seconds," says Reiner.

"Yeah, I'm sure the Greedy Coffee Fairy is going to swoop down and smite me. What the fuck is wrong with you tonight? You're so creepy."

Jean yanks the front door open.

" _Surprise_!" everyone roars the moment they're over the threshold, and, exactly as anticipated, Jean yelps, recoils, and sloshes the entire cup down the front of his shirt.

"Get wrecked," says Reiner.

"Goddamnit!" Jean yells, but he's laughing, the back of his neck turning red with pleasure as everyone applauds and whistles. "You guys fucking suck!"

"Right back at you," says Eren, pushing through the crowd to kiss him soundly on the mouth. "Happy birthday, asshole."

Reiner flashes him a double thumbs-up over Jean's shoulders. They've done a better job than expected with the decorations. Streamers and silver balloons swamp the pub. Jean's favorite table is heaped with presents. Hannes, the bartender, has even goaded the regular patrons into wearing party hats—it looks like a room of tipsy, mismatched garden gnomes. Connie already has his shirt off. Ymir is smirking from the counter, flashing Jean an affectionate middle finger. Reiner scans the crowd for the crucial attendee—but Jean spots him first. He has a fucking Marco-radar.

Jean's breath hitches once, wetly.

"Hi, Jean," says Marco shyly. Even with everyone whooping and singing around them, his soft voice carries. Shit, he looks fantastic. He's all tanned and mature from his European tour, teeth flashing gorgeously white in the dimly-lit bar.

Jean looks like he's going to cry. "Marco?"

"Jean."

"Marco," Jean says again. 

"Donkey," says Connie.

Laughing, Marco leans in for a hug. Out of practice, they tilt the same way, so Marco holds Jean still and wraps his arms around his shoulders. He buries his face against the crook of Jean's neck and inhales deeply. From his angle, Reiner can see Jean's eyes clench tightly shut, lashes trembling.

"I thought you were—?"

"Nope," says Marco.

"But you said you needed to—"

"I _needed_ to see you, Jean."

"Marco—"

These two sappy fuckers will stand there saying each other's names indefinitely if no one intervenes. So Reiner orders a round of shots that Marco, Hitch, and Armin decline—designated driver, straightedge, and preparing for a night shift, respectively—so they foist the extras on Jean, who pounds 'em like a champ. Within fifteen minutes, he's smashed, laughing more than he has for the past eight months. Marco stands next to him. Their hips bump periodically. Eren had gifted Jean a strategically tight blue shirt— _Sega Does What Nintendon't_ , in white caps—and Jean swaps it for his coffee-soaked button-up, stripping right there on the dance floor. Marco glances sideways at him every few seconds, face luminous with hope. His hand makes it to the small of Jean's back in record time.

Reiner and Jean are beyond wasted by the time Marco takes them home, indulgently helping them into the car one at a time. The drive blurs by in blues and whites, the brisk evening starred by streetlights. Marco plays some French synthpop from his phone and Jean says _mon aéroglisseur est plein d'anguilles_ over and over with appalling pronunciation. When they reach Reiner's apartment, Jean spills onto the pavement and perches there until Marco climbs out of the car and helps him up.

"This isn't your stop, Jean."

"You have grown more elbows on your freckle," Jean announces.

"Oh yeah?" asks Marco, snickering.

"You are an adult now. I am so proud of you. It is like you are a single working mother." Jean doesn't use contractions when he's drunk.

"A single working mother you want to fuuuuck," says Reiner. Reiner doesn't filter when he's drunk.

Jean sways again, and Marco bends forward slightly to catch him by the hips, bringing their eyes exactly level. There's a long, charged moment. Reiner watches openly.

"Marco, you are my life," Jean whispers with grave sincerity. He swallows audibly. Then, in the same tone, he adds, "I believe I am about to pee my pants."

Marco sighs and disengages. "Reiner, can Jean use your loo?"

"I cannot manage the stairs," Jean says.

"Escalator," Reiner suggests.

"Elevator," Marco corrects.

"Excavator."

"Yeah, that. I'll keep the car warm, drunkies."

The apartment door isn't locked, which is lucky, because Reiner can't find his key. He and Jean stumble into the entryway, alternately shoving at and clinging to each other, and spend about a minute trying to remove their shoes. The living room is dark. Reiner slaps on a light just in time to see Jean shuffle into the closet, pants already unzipped.

"Your other right," says Reiner.

Jean about-faces crisply and walks into the bathroom. "I am going to have to sit down for this," he announces, kicking the door halfway shut. A second later: "Why the fuck is there glue on your toilet seat?"

Laughing, Reiner makes his way down the hall, concentrating hard to get one foot in front of the other without stomping. Bert is probably asleep by now. Class takes a lot out of him, especially when he's got these late-night telescope labs. Reiner feels a familiar swell of fondness. God, he's come so far. He still might not be ready to get bombed at a birthday bash of the Kirschtein-Braun magnitude, but, you know. Baby steps. The kind of steps Reiner's taking into the bedroom now, hoping he and Jean haven't already woken him.

"I'm home, Bert," Reiner whispers, just in case. He pats the lump of mussed blankets.

Their bed is empty.

Reiner frowns. He backs up to double-check the front door. Yeah, there are Bert's shoes; proportionally small blue Chucks with heels walked ragged. There's his satchel, his house keys, the green hoodie he steals from Reiner's closet when the evenings are chilly. "Bert?" Reiner says, a little louder.

Something shifts minutely on the far side of the room.

Walking carefully, Reiner pursues the movement. Pauses. Bert is sitting on the floor near his side of the bed, eyes shut, head lolling. One of the sheets is pulled over his lap. Was he sleepwalking, maybe? That happens sometimes when Reiner's not there to anchor him to the mattress, or when he's opted not to take one of the pills he was uses for his insomnia. Reiner kneels down to shake him awake, urge him back into bed—and sucks in a sharp, terrified breath.

Bert has a black eye. His lower lip is swollen and bloody, and there are bruises ringing his throat. When Reiner cups his uninjured cheek, Bert nuzzles into his palm, mumbling.

"What?" Reiner demands. "What did you say, baby?"

Bertolt doesn't repeat himself.

It's cold in the apartment. Bert's still got his night shirt and socks on, but his pajama bottoms and boxers are discarded at his feet. Little goose bumps have risen on his arms. Instinctively, Reiner fumbles in the dresser for a change of clothes, tugging the sheet away to help him into something warmer—

And that's when he sees the blood drying between Bert's thighs.

"Oh my god. Oh my god, _Bert_ —"

A shadow spills across the room as Jean skids into the hallway, gripping the doorframe for balance. He's clearly still hammered, but he looks alarmed. Reiner doesn’t understand why until he realizes that he's been saying Bert's name over and over again with increasing desperation. He's almost screaming now. His throat is thrashed.

"What's wrong?" Jean demands.

"Help," Reiner manages.

Jean staggers in, his stride no steadier than Reiner's, and freezes as he evaluates their position. "Oh, fuck," he says. "Oh fuck, oh, fuck. Okay." He screws his eyes shut, hand against his forehead. When he opens them again, they're unfocused, but resolute. "I think—hospital. He's not dead. Right?"

"Fuck you!"

"He's not dead. Reiner—wait, stay here—I'm getting Marco—"

A few seconds later, the front door opens and closes. Reiner's head swims. He's drunk; he's so fucking drunk—he's a fucking _idiot_. He jams a hand over his mouth and tries to think—what happened here? What does Bert need? Shaking, he cradles Bert's face in his palms, leaning close to check his respiration. His inhales seem too slow, too shallow. Panic grips Reiner's heart so hard that he has to swallow back vomit.

"Bert, wake up. Bertolt Hoover. _Bert_."

"Reiner," says Bert suddenly, voice slurred. He doesn't open his eyes. "Shhh. It's fine. Took my...sleeping pill."

The fucking pills. Reiner snatches the bottle off of the bedside table and shakes it—still reasonably full. If this is an overdose, god fucking forbid, it's not on the zolpidem. Bert is always out of it when he takes his sedatives. Reiner has only seen him conscious once in the midst of a drug-induced slumber, forcing himself upright to answer his phone, and Bert was just like this, groggy and lax and placating. If it weren't for the blood between his legs, this could just be a normal night. Reiner turns one of Bert's arms over, hunting for a pulse. Stops short.

The inside of his elbow is badly bruised.

Reiner braces himself against the side of the bed frame and gathers Bert into his arms, rocking him back and forth. Bert is limp, heavy. His parted lips rest at the ridge of Reiner's clavicle, breath hot and damp. Reiner hitches him closer so he can press his mouth to his sweat-matted hair. "Baby," he sobs between kisses. "Baby, please. Please be okay."

The front door bangs open again. Footsteps thud down the hall, and then Marco is kneeling beside them, the pad of his thumb brushing against the tender skin below Bert's bruised eye. "Shit," Marco whispers. His face is pale, voice mercifully sober. He reaches for Bert's arm, but Reiner bats him away, snarling.

"Don't touch him!"

"Reiner, we need to—"

"No!" Reiner yells, slapping at Marco's hand as it closes in again. "Fuck off! Get away from him!"

"Hey," Marco barks, seizing Reiner's shoulders. His dark, steadying eyes burn into Reiner's. "We need to carry him to the car. You have to help me. We need to get him to the car so we can take him to the hospital."

"No. What if he—concussion?" asks Jean from the hallway.

"It's not a head injury," says Marco, tracing Bert's hairline with cautious fingers. "He's drugged."

"His sleeping pills," Reiner says.

Marco snatches the bottle off the end table and shoves it into his coat pocket. "Reiner, I need your help. Are you good to stand?"

Anything for Bert. Fucking anything. "This isn't happening," says Reiner anyway. He grasps Bert's arms and holds them over his own shoulders until Bert clasps them around Reiner's neck in a sleepy, reflexive grip. Tucks his elbow beneath Bert's knees, secures his palm on the small of his back, and lifts him from the carpet. Marco hovers nearby, hands out. Jean yanks a blanket off the bed and piles it over Bert's lower body. They hasten to the car without speaking.

En route to the hospital, Bertolt fades in and out of consciousness, making soft, strained noises. His eyes open just once, with great effort. A moment later they tremble shut again. Reiner kisses his eyelids.

Bert's eye, his bruises, the fluid crusting his thighs. Reiner can't quite piece this together yet, drunk as he is, but he knows it's going to change them.


	2. Chapter 2

It's two in the morning. Jean is drunk and exhausted. Reiner is drunk, exhausted, and nearly hysterical. Bert is—he's—he's _hurt_ , Marco's mind supplies, with knee-jerk evasion; Bert is battered and conciliatory and drugged halfway out of his fucking mind. "The sleeping pill," he keeps murmuring, wholly unalarmed. "Just the sleeping pill. 'M so tired."

Marco only notices the bruises on his neck in the stark light of Rose Medical's ER, and his chest tightens with a sick, shaky fury. Bertolt may not know exactly what happened to him yet, but Marco does. Marco fucking does.

He'd only taken a perfunctory glimpse at Bert's bare body to make sure it was safe to move him, but he hates that he had to look. He wasn't supposed to see Bert in such a private moment. Was not meant to see the discolorations on his hipbones, the blood and semen caught between his thighs—and, somehow more violating than even that, the look on Reiner's face, as if someone had reached inside of him and pulled out something that he needed to live. Marco is nowhere as naïve as he used to be: life is cruel. Reiner's condition had taught him that, and Eren's mother's death, Annie's overdose and Armin's—yeah, he still can't think about what happened to Armin.

Bad things happen to good people. Marco gets that. But his friends are extraordinarily good, and their traumas have been extraordinarily horrific.

Marco's hands throb. He looks down and realizes he's been clenching his fists so hard that his fingernails have punctured his palms; he has to consciously force himself to relax them. He heads to the reception desk, taking timed, steadying breaths.

Both of the intake nurses are engaged in rapid-fire conversation—one with a woman whose hand is wrapped in a bloody dishtowel, the other with a short, handsome coworker in blue Eeyore scrubs. He's the one who moves aside first, dragging a stack of manila folders with him and giving Marco the go-ahead with a tilt of the chin. Marco steps forward.

"My friend was assaulted," he tells the intake nurse, surprised by the preternaturally calm quality of his own voice. "Please help."

The plastic ID badge clipped to her shirt reads _Petra Ral, RN_. Her red hair sways as she pushes up from her chair to take in Bert's condition. He's sitting between Jean and Reiner alongside the far wall, eyes shut, fiddling clumsily with the zipper on Jean's jacket. Jean and Reiner actually look more messed up than he does—Jean has a strange, over-focused expression, and Reiner is shaking like crazy, whispering into Bert's ear fast and low—but there's something stubborn and telling in Bert's expression. They'd swapped out the bed sheet for a loose pair of Jean's gym shorts in the car, and Marco wonders if Petra can see how wrong the color is on him; that uncharacteristic acid orange that makes his complexion look all the more sallow.

"Your other friends, um," says Petra.

He doesn't lie. "They've had a lot to drink. I drove them home from a birthday party and went to drop one of them off at his apartment. That's where we found Bert."

"Bert," repeats Petra, leaning over her keyboard to type.

"Bertolt, yeah. B-E-R—wait, here." He retrieves the bottle of zolpidem and hands it to Petra, indicating the name on the label. "He says he took one of these."

"May I see his photo ID?"

Marco grimaces. "I didn't think to grab it."

"All right." Petra takes the bottle from him, types from it, and reaches for a clipboard on the back wall. In a kind, firm voice, she announces, "Bertolt Hoover, come with me, please. We'll get you checked out."

"That's okay," says Bert. "I'm fine."

"Good, then this'll go super quick."

"He's not fine," Marco says, trying to keep his voice low.

"I know. We'll take care of him," Petra replies gently, at the same volume. Her eyes narrow a little as Reiner urges Bert upright. Bert sways, so Reiner immediately draws one of his arms over his shoulders and scoops him up for the second time that night. He's still shoeless. His socked feet look strangely exposed. Petra scans him, eyes quick and unflinching, and snags her short coworker's scrubs as he begins to step away from the desk. "Hey. Levi."

"Nope," says the man, Levi, extricating his sleeve. "I'm dead on my fucking feet, Petra. I'm going home."

"Stay for a minute, please."

A look passes between them. Levi glares at the clock hanging on the opposite wall, then at Bert, and reluctantly drops the heap of folders back beside Petra's computer after a loaded pause. "Fuck's sake," he says, no real anger in it. He crosses the waiting room and disappears through the automatic sliding doors. Petra, smile strained and plastic, nods as Reiner and Bert approach, gesturing down a different corridor.

"This way, please."

Marco watches them until they disappear into a side door, then walks back to the entrance and slumps down into the chair beside Jean. Jean's eyes are shut, but he's not quite sleeping—he straightens up when Marco sits, blinking back his fatigue to fix Marco with his bright, intense gaze. Still drunk. He licks his dry lips. "So?" he says.

"So, Bert is an adult and I don't think Reiner has medical right of attorney yet, so we'll know exactly nothing until he talks to us. _If_ he talks to us." Marco doesn't mean to sound so bitter, but the last twenty-four hours have been surreal and harrowing and utterly out of his hands. Part of him still hopes he's going to be jostled awake by airplane turbulence, a thousand welcome miles out from the States. He grabs Jean's hand and squeezes. "Happy birthday," he says miserably.

"It's past midnight. It's not my birthday anymore. I actually had a great time."

"Yeah?" says Marco, because he can't add anything that wouldn't cheapen that.

"Yeah. Seeing you is just—fuck, I missed you so much. I can't believe you're here. Yesterday was the best day of my life." He drops his head onto Marco's shoulder, and, despite the circumstances, Marco feels a little thrill of longing when Jean's knee presses against his own. "Why did it have to end this way?" Jean asks, playing with Marco's fingers. "Why does this shit always happen to our friends? I'm not just being a little pissbaby; like _statistically_ , the bullshit they have to deal with—"

"No, yeah, I was thinking the same thing."

"I shouldn't have been drinking tonight," says Jean with bitter self-loathing.

"Jean, how could you have possibly known something like this was going to happen? You did fine. You did everything just right."

Jean sucks on the very tip of his own thumb, catches himself, and starts nibbling on the nail instead. It's a strange, vulnerable gesture; Marco hasn't seen him do it since second grade or so. "This is bad, isn't it?"

They don't disrespect each other with falsities anymore. Jean taught Marco how to speak straightforwardly, and sometimes Marco resents that. "It's pretty bad."

A new nurse has taken Petra's vacant post at the desk, and another stream of patients flood in, raucous with panic. They're loud enough that Marco and Jean have to stop talking, and by the time the noise has subsided, Jean is nodding off again, his long, dark eyelashes sweeping his high cheekbones. Marco studies him sidelong. Jean is so fucking beautiful. If anyone ever hurt Jean like they'd hurt Bert, Marco would kill them. He would kill them and bring them back and kill them again. Marco presses his mouth into Jean's hair, letting his own eyes slip shut.

He's been carrying around the little wooden box for almost four months, ever since Reiner started flooding Marco with links to jewelry websites to get a second opinion on Bert's ring. The purchase for Jean had just kind of happened. It's eighteen-karat yellow gold; a big diamond and a smoky sphere of honey-colored quartz inlaid in the whorls of a lemniscate. It was marketed as an engagement ring, but it's just subtle enough to play off as a friendship gift, albeit a very gracious one, if Jean spooks. It was just so _Jean_ that Marco had to buy it. All those long and complicated angles, the edges, the aggressive shine of it.

No matter its meaning, fiancé or friend, Marco wants it on Jean's finger.

God, and Jean still doesn’t know that Marco is moving back permanently. His stuff is set to arrive in a few days, and he has already paid the first and last month's rent on a two-bed-one-bath that has more than enough space for all of Jean's monitors and recording software. All of that, and none of it is appropriate anymore.

And—that thought isn't as depressing as he thought it'd be. Marco chews at his lower lip. Life is unpredictable, and things can change so fast. So fucking fast. Sometimes Marco forgets, because he feels like he has known Jean for thousands of years, that they haven’t even kissed yet.

That treacherous thought replays itself over and over in Marco's mind for the full thirty minutes it takes for their friends to reemerge from the room down the hall. Bert, now dressed in a clean hospital gown, is sitting in a wheelchair with his clothes folded in his lap. His eyes keep drooping shut as Reiner and Petra confer, their body language growing increasingly strained. Marco gently extricates himself from Jean, pillowing his head against the wall with the jacket Reiner left there, and joins them. He's trying to be unobtrusive, but Bert interrupts as soon as he sees him.

"Marco," he says with a small, sleepy smile, then winces as it tugs on the three tiny stitches in his lower lip. "How was your flight?"

"Fine, thank you," says Marco after a moment. "Bert—"

"I'm getting another exam."

"Are you?"

"Yes." Bert lifts a hand toward Marco, who takes it in both of his own. "They don't want Reiner, and neither do I."

Marco flinches, but not nearly as palpably as Reiner, though Reiner quickly smoothes his expression into something eerily pleasant. He's never been ashamed to emote—he's actually the second biggest crier following Eren, who cries when he's angry, which is, like, all the time—so seeing Reiner's face so dead and purposely uncomprehending is unsettling as hell.

"It's a forensic exam," Reiner explains. "Anyone who sits in with him might get called on to make a statement, and they think I'm too drunk. It's all right, whatever. He's fine, you know? But it might take a while, like a couple of hours. So."

It takes Marco a few beats realize what he is being asked. "Oh! Oh. Yeah, of course. I'll watch yours and you watch mine," he says without thinking—and winces again, throwing a quick look over his shoulder at Jean. Thank god, Jean's still tucked against the wall, his face soft and boyish in sleep. Jean is no one's, least of all Marco's. Marco burns with shame for giving voice to such a presumptuous, wrong statement. "Crap, I didn't mean—"

"I know." Reiner winks at him, still smiling determinedly. What the hell. About a thousand chills run down Marco's spine. "Room 104."

Marco starts to reply, but Reiner breaks away too fast. He watches Reiner make his way to Jean, one hand on the wall to steady himself, the other at his temples. It doesn't look like he's having an episode, thank god—just the alcohol, then, and more than a little stress—but it's still not good. Marco glances between him and Bert, who is curled up in the wheelchair, dozing again. For the first time since they were fourteen years old, Marco realizes, they look small.

*

"Shark, shark, shark attack. This shark is like a maniac! Um—something-something be the winner, just don't be last or you'll be dinner—"

Marco's voice isn't as good as Jean's, but that doesn't matter when Bert is peaceable and dreamy and asking him to sing commercial jingles from a childhood they hadn't even shared. "Our group home didn't have hot water, let alone a TV," Bert says. He's never this forthcoming about his past. It feels wrong to be hearing this under these circumstances. "When Reiner and I moved out, we got cable before we bought a mattress. We'll watch anything. Infomercials, the food recycling show—we love the food recycling show. Can you sing that one?"

"I'm sorry, Bertie. I don't know it."

"It goes like...you are what you eat, you are what you eat, we're all the s— _aah_!"

"Sorry," says Levi, immediately withdrawing his gloved hands from between Bert's knees. "Are you okay?"

"Shark attack," says Bert, voice breaking with shaky laughter.

Levi waits for a long moment. When Bert finally quiets, limbs slowly relaxing back against the exam table, Levi resumes his work. He's holding a fucking speculum. Marco squeezes his eyes shut and lowers his lips back to Bert's sweaty forehead, trying to think of another song to distract him with.

Outside of 104, Levi had been waiting for them in glasses and latex gloves. His pinched, weary expression resolved into something softer when he saw them, and after he'd spoken to Bertolt privately for a few minutes, he returned to the hallway to address Marco. "Sorry you heard me bitching at the front desk," he'd said. "That was unprofessional as shit."

"It's fine," said Marco. "It's not like we want to be here either."

Levi Ackerman is a SANE: that's a sexual assault nurse examiner, he'd explained, and he's one of three RNs at Rose Medical who is licensed to collect DNA evidence. Marco watches him as he works. He's a small, severe man, says "fuck" a lot, but there's something very human and very hurt in his eyes. He isn't treating Bert with undue delicacy; his ministrations are quick and unsentimental. Marco is glad for his efficiency. Bert looks paler with each passing minute, all of his healthy new color draining away beneath his bruises.

The last time Marco had seen Bert in person had been the day before he boarded his flight for London. It was a going-away bunch at Sina's, just the guys—the ladies had taken him out for drinks and dancing the night before—and the mood was bizarrely bitter, stilted in the way of good friends trying to support a painful decision. Conversation was sporadic. Eren and Connie, not morning people, weren't quite awake enough to mitigate the silence; Reiner and Armin swapped infrequent comments with forced cheer. Jean, of course, was sullen and pensive, eyes pinned to Marco with a resentful grief that made Marco sting with regret. He stirred his coffee for a solid five minutes just to have something to stare at. If he caught Jean's gaze, he knew he would start crying.

Unexpectedly, Bert had been the one to broach the subject. _You're going to do great, Marco_ , he'd said suddenly. _This is just a year. There's so much time._

 _You can't know that_ , said Jean, without pretending not to understand what he meant. Jean and Marco have been openly in love and openly terrified about it since fourth grade. Addressing it over a farewell meal was safe: Marco was crossing the world for a year and a half to do disabled care volunteer work, and nothing could come of a formal confession.

 _I have a good feeling_ , Bert had said. _About now, and everything afterward_.

Presumably, he'd meant the 'everything afterward' pertaining to Jean and Marco specifically, because _this_ —this is a fucking nightmare.

The first thing Levi did was scrape beneath each of Bert's fingernails in slow, thorough strokes, then he relinquished his hand so Marco could take it in his own. He strokes Bert's knuckles with the pad of his thumb. Bert's hands, like his feet, are small for his height, prettily smooth and complemented now by his new delicate tension ring. It's more fetching in person than it was in the three dozen or so pictures Reiner had texted Marco in the month before his proposal, captioned with frantic questions like _too plain??? stone too small????? what about engraving??_ In the end, he'd made the correct decision: gleaming setting, sweet lines, the pearl floating in the gold as if by magic.

Levi asks Bert to lie on his side. Even with a sheet over his lower body to preserve his modesty, Marco can see bruises layering his shoulders, the small of his back, the long curve of his spine. He has a tattoo on his hipbone that Marco has never seen before. A sparrow. It suits him in so many different ways. It's small. Beautiful but unassuming. Coming down from flight. Marco sings a few French songs he learned about birds, purposely avoiding Alouette.

Bert drowses while Levi takes more digital photographs and DNA samples from his contusions. When his eyes reopen maybe fifteen minutes later, he's more alert, more frightened. His sedative is wearing off. He tries to sit up.

"Reiner?"

"Shh," says Marco, easing him back down. "It's okay, Bert. Reiner is waiting for you outside."

Bert's whole body goes rigid. His eyes dart around the room before settling on Marco's face, frightened and aware. "Marco? Where are we?"

Marco smiles. He can feel the tremble in it. "You're in the hospital, Bert. You're getting an exam."

"Exam?" says Bert—then belatedly notices Levi, still positioned beside the table with a handful of swabs, though he'd backed off the instant Bert roused. Bert scrambles upright, seizing the bottom hem of the hospital gown and hauling it back down to cover his knees. "Who are you?" he demands, voice cracking. "What the hell is this?"

"Bert, honey. Bert," says Marco firmly, clasping one gentle hand to his face to catch his gaze. When Bert finally focuses on him, Marco continues: "Bert, Reiner found you unconscious in your bedroom and brought you here. Do you remember that?"

"No," says Bert.

"Do you remember finishing your class? Being at home?"

"No! No. I—I'd just—"

He breaks off so abruptly that there is absolutely no question: it's coming back to him. His mouth closes abruptly. A terrible, ruined look passes over his face, and he swallows back a sob, clenching his eyes shut so hard that his lashes tremble. Without thinking, Marco surges forward to embrace him, tries too late to pull away when his brain catches up with him. Not that it turns out to be a problem. Bert catches his elbows and holds on with all of his limited strength, shaking all over.

"Yeah, I think we're done here," says Levi, reaching back for an envelope to replace the swabs.

"What? No," Marco blurts, startled by his own urgency.

Levi raises an eyebrow. "Not your choice."

"Bert, wait. Wait a sec." Marco tightens his grip on Bert's hand, which has gone slick with chilly sweat. "This is for forensic evidence. You're not going to get this chance again. You can't change your mind later—don't disallow yourself this possibility."

"Disallow himself, or disallow _you_?" Levi snaps.

Marco flushes hotly. He's right. This isn't Marco's place, but he's just—he's so fucking _mad_. Someone Bert trusted had undone a decade of counseling and effort and friends trying to convince Bert that he is accepted, understood, _loved_. Anyone who could take advantage of someone like Bert deserves to die. The idea of the bastard not even being prosecuted is stomach-turning. "I just—I feel like anything you can do to strengthen a report—"

Bert looks away. "I'm not going to file a report."

" _What_?" The legs of Marco's chair screech against the tile as he jolts to his feet. He hears Jean in his head, Jean's passion rattling inside him: "Are you kidding me? Bert, you were raped!"

He regrets it even before Bert's face crumples, but Levi is already standing up too, pushing his glasses on top of his head. "Get the fuck out," he says. 

"No," says Bert in a weak, panicked voice. "I need him."

Levi is indisputably on Team Bert. He yields immediately. "Fine," he says simply, then adds, to Marco, "but you: keep it to yourself. He said he doesn’t want to file a report at this time. We'll keep all of this evidence until he does. I get that your inner boy scout is shouting about justice and morality, but let your friend decide the capacity in which you aid his recovery, all right? Enough has happened out of his control already."

Throat closing up, Marco nods. Even if he wanted to argue with Levi, the man clearly has experience with this brand of violence that Marco doesn't. He has a story in him too. Marco hopes he, at least, has a police report to show for it.

He sits back down.

"I'm sorry, Bert. I—I wasn't speaking in your best interests; I wasn't thinking of you the way I should be." There he is, there's Marco again. It's exhausting to feel with Jean's passion for even a moment. He squeezes Bert's fingers. "You want to go home now?"

"Please," says Bert.

Levi performs the concluding measures of the exam with his customary brisk competence: bagging the samples, taking a few final photographs and swabs from Bert's bruised throat, his cheeks and lips, the tender insides of his mouth. Marco tries not to think about what it'd mean to find an assailant's DNA there. Levi has Bert step off of the cloth he'd set down to catch stray particulates. Bert stands with Marco, shivering in the flimsy hospital gown. Marco shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over Bert's shoulders, and Bert pulls it close around himself, his expression lost and exhausted and full of unspeakable grief.

"Who did this to you?" Marco asks quietly, hands still on Bert's arms.

"Did what?"

"Bert—"

"I don't know," he says, voice breaking. "I really don't know."

Marco lets him go and leans up against him, resting his head against Bert's lax bicep. His head fills with tired, angry static.

Bert knows.

*

The hospital provides clothing: white socks, disposable slippers, black sweatpants and a plain red cotton t-shirt. Marco's never seen Bert in that bright jewel tone before—Bert favors cooler, desaturated colors; washed-out blues, dark grays, Reiner's green hoodie, feather-soft from frequent washing. Under different circumstances, the red would be handsome on him, but tonight it only calls attention to his swollen eyes and the mottled, purpling bruises on his neck. He doesn't speak during the drive back to Jean's apartment. Without discussing it, they know Bert isn't going back to his own. Today, or possibly ever again.

Marco thinks about his new lease. Maybe he and Reiner can move in with him. Get a fresh start. They deserve it more than anyone else he knows.

Jean doesn't need to know that the place was originally for him. Jean doesn't need to know anything.

The surprise visit means that Jean's apartment is untidy, a little musky, beautifully and organically himself. There are pizza flyers and socks everywhere. Crushed energy drink cans. Dog-eared books of poetry and historical fiction, all of them Marco's recommendations. Marco smiles at the one of the novels open on the kitchen counter; a design theory paperback that Marco had mentioned once in passing and never intended Jean to pursue. It's a fucking terrible book, but Jean has already slogged through three-quarters, notes written in the margins. Marco is gripped by the desire to apologize for it.

Its author claims that motives can be discerned from whether one chooses to use push or pull doors, how one pours soup, the orientation of rolls of toilet paper on their holders. As if anything is that easy. As if any human being is that simple.

"Sorry," Jean mumbles, kicking his dirty laundry under the table. "I'll clean up a little tomorrow."

"No need," says Reiner—the first audible words he's spoken since Bert went in for his second exam, and they are vacantly formal, uncharacteristic. "Thank you for your hospitality." He's holding Bert's hand so tightly that his knuckles are white. Marco frowns. He's about to say something when he sees that Bert is clinging back just as desperately, and his mouth snaps shut again.

"I'll crack a window," says Jean. "Fuck, it reeks in here."

It doesn’t, but they let him cross the room anyway and part the curtains. Gold-pale morning light spills in, surprising them all. Marco pulls his cell phone from his pocket and checks the time. It's fifteen 'til six. They'd been at the hospital for almost four hours. Jesus.

They stand awkwardly in the living room for a moment, not looking at each other.

"Can I take a shower?" Bert asks finally.

"Yeah," says Jean a little too quickly. "Yeah, go ahead, use whatever soap and towels you want. I'll find you something to sleep in."

"Thanks," says Bert. He moves down the hall, the little hospital slippers making soft sandy noises on the carpet, then pauses in the bathroom doorway. In a very small voice, he adds, "Please don't talk about me while I'm in there."

Reiner is already nodding—he'd agree to sprout wings and fly off a cliff right now, if Bert asked him to—so Jean and Marco share their own private look, hesitant. They're going to talk about it eventually. They _have_ to talk about it. But Bert had included that caveat, that 'while,' perhaps on purpose. Maybe he just needs one more normal shower, wants to feel clean one more time. Marco can allow that. He nods along with Reiner, ignoring Jean's pained expression.

"All right," he says. "Sure."

"Promise me," says Bert.

"We promise."

Bert nods back, though the motion is forced and mechanical. He seems to space out for an instant, hand on the doorknob, then straightens up and steps into the bathroom. Closes the door most of the way but doesn't latch it for some reason. After a short ten seconds, too soon for it to heat up properly, the water begins running, and its patter against the tiled walls dulls as Bert steps in.

More silence. Reiner, whose neutral expression disintegrated the instant Bert was out of sight, doesn’t look physically capable of speech. He looks broken.

"So," says Jean at last. "I'm—gonna make dinner, I think. Or, I guess it's technically breakfast now? I've got, um—Pop Tarts, chorizo, ketchup—instant mac and cheese—oh, and that huge-ass bag of gummy bears Connie gave me for my birthday. You want me to go get it?"

"Uh, that's okay," says Marco. Jean's presents are still jammed in the trunk of his car. Weird to think that they'd just come home from a birthday party. He's considering offering to bring everything in when a thought occurs to him: Reiner and Bert need some of their belongings if they're going to stay here for a while, and there's no way he's asking them to go back to that place. He chews his tongue for a moment, nervous. "How about I go pick up doughnuts or something?"

"Yeah, that sounds a lot better than gummy bears. Thanks. Need cash?"

"I've got it." Marco glances at Reiner, keeping his voice casual. "Can I have your apartment key?"

Turns out he needn't have bothered to be so careful. Reiner forks over his key ring without question, still staring at the bathroom door, eyes red and distant. Trying not to jar him, Marco takes the key delicately by its bow, not touching Reiner at all.

"Okay, be back in a jiffy."

The idiom is too try-hard and jaunty even for Marco, and Jean gives him a blank, faintly amused look. Marco feels his ears reddening as he hurries out the door back to Jean's car. He smiles a little, and it's the first thing in hours that doesn't feel wrong.

The lights are still on Bert and Reiner's apartment when Marco lets himself in. He closes the front door and leans against it for a long moment, breathing evenly.

He'd been too frantic to really look at the place before. Bert and Reiner had signed the new lease shortly after Marco's move, and seeing it for the first time now, under these horrific circumstances, makes everything domestic about it felt cruelly bittersweet. The line of shoes on the mat. The stained coffeemaker, the books on every surface. Two people had been building a life here together, careful and hopeful and seamlessly integrated. They share matching mugs and separate sides of the same desk. Reiner's laptop is open to half a dozen tabs of wedding floral arrangements.

 _Which_? he'd written on a Post-It on the edge of the screen. Below that, in blue pen and Bert's faint, compact hand: _I like carnations better._

Marco knows, without a doubt, that Bert thinks roses are too expensive, and Reiner is already budgeting for them; rust-colored ones with dark, flushed edges. They're Bert's favorites.

Hm. Bert had had time to reply to the note, and had left the laptop open for Reiner to see when he got home from the party. That meant a few things: he'd had some downtime after class, and he'd been expecting Reiner home reasonably soon. Marco stares at the correspondence for a long time, chest tight. He wonders how close they were to preventing this attack, if it was a matter of one shot of whisky or three, and how this night would've gone if they had been there.

He's had this plan ever since he started the engine and began following the GPS back here: he finds a paper grocery bag under the sink—the kind of detail exclusive to longtime housemates, like newly installed shelving or reserves of Kleenex—and shakes it open.

Inside, he gingerly places all of the unwashed mugs that are in the dishwasher, Bert's keys, and his shoes. The covers on the couch cushions. The throw pillows. With his phone, he snaps four pictures of the bedroom before he strips the bed of its remaining sheets. The mattress protector is dappled with blood, and waves of anger and revulsion course through him as he folds it with the very tips of his fingers. He packs away the thin blue blanket and both pillowcases.

He doesn't know how useful any of this is going to be from a forensic standpoint, so he takes it everything.

Then the hard part.

He hunts down one of Reiner's huge gym bags, empties it of his athletic tape and spare towels, and takes a circuit through the apartment for vital items: favorite clothes, Bert's coursework and wallet, novels with bookmarks in them, toothbrushes, their laptops, phones, chargers, Reiner's reading glasses. Items from yesterday, when things were still normal. Before he leaves, he turns off the lights and stands in the threshold for a long moment, staring into the darkness. He'd pulled all the shades.

Bertolt was assaulted in this apartment, in his own _home_.

Marco slams the door shut and locks it. He can't wait to get back to Jean's to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the incredible feedback and support; I realize the subject matter is super heavy. Please leave a comment if you'd like, and have a good weekend!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you are still reading, thanks for your support! Warnings this chapter for some sexual activity, graphic discussions of rape and assault, and weirdly, peripherally, vague League of Legends references? I don't know. It's one of the few things I myself actually need a heads-up about, owing to a serious past addiction. Have a good week, and please leave comments or kudos if you have the time!

Reiner wakes up with his arms around Bert's waist, their heads on the same pillow, Bert's huge, sad eyes open and fixed on Reiner's face. Reiner'd be lying if he said he didn't jump a little, but Bert doesn't take offense; just tips his cheek into Reiner's palm when Reiner thumbs gingerly at the bruise. It has swollen now from his brow bone to the corner of his mouth. "Bert," Reiner says, choked, right before Bert parts his stitched-up lips and draws one of Reiner's fingers between them.

This is—this is unusual. Bert rarely initiates sexual activity. They share an infrequent but passionate physical relationship, touching each other in the shower, necking, rocking their hips together in bed while they kiss. Occasionally Reiner fucks Bert's buttocks or his long, tight thighs, lapping the sweat from the hollow of his throat as he gasps and moans. Sometimes Bert takes Reiner in his mouth without breaking eye contact, and oh god, does that get him going. Bertolt is a shy, tender lover, thorough and warm the way he is in everything he does.

Now, though, he's kissing too hard for his stitches. He's dragging Reiner's hands between his knees; he's moaning like he's in pain. When Reiner cups his balls, downy with short, soft hair, Bert raises one leg and drapes it across Reiner's hipbone, drawing himself open. He smiles without mirth. Urges Reiner's finger against his entrance—

Reiner bangs his shoulder hard against Jean's bedside table in his haste to yank away.

He and Bert have never completed anal sex. They were saving that for their wedding night. The realization hits Reiner so hard it punches the breath from his lungs.

That bastard took Bertolt's virginity.

"What?" says Bert, voice cracking. He _knows_ what; there's no way Reiner's expression isn't giving him away. "Reiner, _what_?"

"N-nothing. Oh, fuck." He's shaking so bad. He catches Bert's wrists in a gentle grip and holds them against his mouth, kissing the fragile veins there.

As deeply as he wants to take Bert now, love all the pain and fear right out of him, he knows how wrong this moment is. He'd be taking advantage as surely as his rapist. And—and Bert's blood work won't be coming back for a few days, Petra said. He could have an STI. They had not used a condom. Bert had worded it exactly like that, too, as if he'd been a willing participant: _no condom, baby, I want to feel you_. That, fucking all of that, it was supposed to be _Reiner's_. And it's not even a matter of his own greed, because it was Bert's gift to give. And Bert had wanted him to have it.

"Kiss me?" Bert says. It's the frail voice he used to use in foster care. Reiner hasn't heard it in years. He cups Bert's face in his hands.

"Yes, baby. Yes."

He keeps his kisses soft. Bert's lip is faintly sweet with blood. The stitches feel strange, fibrous and artificial. Reiner focuses on the undamaged corners of his mouth, undeterred by his breath and his dirty teeth—he's pretty sure he tastes worse, anyway—and when Bert holds Reiner's hand to the lower hem of Jean's borrowed shirt, Reiner slides it up his ribcage and rubs gently at his hard, dusky nipple. Makes the mistake of looking down. The bruises on Bert's hips stand out like exclamation points against his pale skin.

"Oh, Bert," he whimpers. To his horror, his eyes begin to burn.

"Don't, Reiner. Please don't."

"Sorry. I'm so s-sorry— _shit_ —"

He can't hold it back anymore. He'd gotten through the previous night on pure inebriation and adrenaline, keeping his interactions with Petra falsely cheerful, as if pretending nothing had happened would make it true. And Bert had been pretending, too. Made simple denial that much easier. He should've been supporting Bert, or at the very least beginning to come to terms with the rape himself, so Bert wouldn't be forced to absurdly comfort Reiner like this. He'd fallen asleep immediately after his shower, curled up into a tight, uncharacteristic ball. That should've been the first sign. The first closing-in of him, as literal as it was emotional.

Bert sighs. He shifts closer so Reiner doesn't have room to look at his abused body and nuzzles against him, letting the tears bead on the pads of his thumbs before swiping them away. "We're okay, Reiner," he soothes. "Everything is okay."

"It's not," says Reiner, voice hitching with sobs. "It's fucking not."

"It's okay. Shhh, shh..."

Reiner cries, forehead to forehead with his fiancé. He feels like utter shit. Bert's not crying. Bert's not even frowning; his expression is soft and loving, affected in the way of one comforting a child. Reiner feels fucking ridiculous as he desperately kisses the sides of Bert's mouth, beneath the shelf of his jaw, along the groove of his collarbone. Bert strokes his hair, tickling Reiner's scalp lightly with his nails the way he likes, until his crying tapers off and his breaths are only catching a little. Fury replaces the despair. He surges forward and kisses Bert so hard that Bert hisses in pain.

_Who the fuck touched you like this_? he thinks, panting against the smooth skin behind Bert's ear. _Who dared to hurt you_? What he says aloud is, "I'm so sorry, baby."

"It's just a little sore," says Bert, pulling back to give his lip an experimental touch.

"I meant about what happened to you."

Bert doesn't lift his gaze. He makes a weird, noncommittal noise, then sits up, back toward Reiner. The ridges of his spine strain against Jean's shirt. When Reiner reaches out to grasp his shoulder, he flinches, but allows the touch.

"What happened to you?" Reiner rephrases quietly.

Long, tense silence.

"I'm sorry for cheating on you," Bert says at last, voice light and testing, inviting a confrontation.

He doesn't even bother to respond. He knows what Bert is trying to do—he'd rather be a cheater than a victim, because at least that would've been in his control. Reiner won't entertain that delusion. Won't let Bert insult himself with even a hypothetical occurrence of infidelity, or force Reiner into offering him forgiveness he doesn’t need. There is nothing to forgive. Bert did nothing wrong. Reiner sits up and leans behind him, tonguing at the little freckle on his right shoulder.

"I can only say this once," says Bert, choking up.

Reiner can feel his own heartbeat in every pulse point. He massages the nape of Bert's neck. "I'm listening, love."

"And you can't ask who. Promise me."

That condition is harder to agree to. Furious tears well up in Reiner's eyes. He has to know, _fuck_ , he _needs_ to know who to fucking slaughter—but that anger has to take a backseat right now to this bargain of Bert's, brave despite everything.

God, he is so courageous. He's kind and beautiful and strong and deserves not one molecule of this pain. Reiner can't take the hurt away from him, but maybe—just maybe—he can help him shoulder it.

He nods.

"Okay. I won't ask."

Bert nods back without turning. One of his hands steals down, searching for Reiner's, and he only begins to speak when their fingers are entwined. 

"He—offered me a ride home from class. I left your hoodie in his car, and he brought it back to me about ten minutes later, without calling first. I was already in my pajamas. I'd taken my pill. I tried to make him tea, but I was nodding off—he said he'd help me to bed—"

Bert pauses, his free hand rising over his mouth. His voice thickens.

"When I came to, he was inside of me. I tried to push him away. He started hitting me. I grayed out again."

His shoulders begin to heave. Reiner wishes he could see his face, but at the same time, he's desperately grateful he can't. Reiner's lips tremble as he kisses his way up and down Bert's spine, over the bruises, tasting the salt of Bert's skin and his own tears. Bert swallows twice, loud and wet. 

"I couldn't push him off!" he sobs suddenly, with convulsive effort. "I couldn't move, I couldn't even speak—I was trying to call out but all I could do was make this horrible croaking sound—and he kept—he was just _shoving_ himself on me. My phone was there, it was _right there_ —"

He's crying openly now. Reiner rocks him, arms closed around his waist, and Bert clings onto them so tight it hurts. Slowly, Reiner eases them back into a lying position. He holds Bert from behind, lips against Bert's throat again, not kissing him. Bert cries in harsh bursts, his whole body jerking. When he shows no signs of calming, Reiner begins to hum theme songs, the way one would offer lullabies to an infant. They love their shows. They love anything that keeps away the silence. Gradually, Bert's sobs begin to slow.

"I remember when you got there," Bert mumbles, sniffling. "I was so happy. I thought I'd dreamt it all."

"I feel you, baby. It’s cowardly, but I wish I were still too drunk to understand."

Bert squirms around in bed to face him. The shaky tips of his fingers find Reiner's damp cheeks, and he strokes them dry again, his own eyes swollen and scared and wet. They kiss. Reiner is careful about Bert's stitches this time, and after a soft, quiet interlude, Bert pulls back and tongues carefully at the sutures.

"Stings," he says.

"I need to stop kissing you so you can heal properly."

He pulls Reiner close and says it like a prayer: "Don't ever stop kissing me, Reiner."

When he has finally fallen back asleep, again in that tight fetal position instead of his normal sprawling posture, Reiner gets up and pads into the living room. Marco is snoring lightly in the armchair, and Jean is on the couch, sleeping with his brow furrowed in discomfort. Reiner feels a stab of guilt. They'd made the guy sleep off a hangover on his own sofa after his birthday party. Real nice. Reiner tiptoes into the kitchen and starts gently opening cabinets to see what he can scrounge together for lunch, but Bert's phone abruptly begins ringing, startling Marco and Jean awake anyway. Jean, groaning, swipes it off the coffee table into one hand.

" _What_?"

The faint, concerned response is so clearly Armin that Reiner recognizes his voice even from across the apartment. Marco drags himself upright, but Jean doesn't open his eyes.

"No, this is Patrick," says Jean.

"That's Bert's phone," Marco murmurs, voice damp with sleep.

"What?"

"That's Bert's phone."

"What?" Jean barks for the third time, obnoxiously loud, but finally cracks an eye open and glances down at the mobile, which lacks his own tamago cell phone charm and yellow case with the komodo dragon stickers. "Oh—my bad. No, it's Jean." He listens, wincing, one hand going to his temples. "Yeah. Like death warmed up, but it was worth it. You?"

Marco spots Reiner, standing awkwardly in the kitchen with a loaf of bread in one hand. _Good morning_ , he mouths.

"Morning," says Reiner, quiet.

 _How is he_?

"Not great."

Jean overhears, and it reminds him. In spite of his obvious hangover, he sits up and looks back and forth between Reiner and Marco for assistance. "Good," he tells Armin distantly, his cheer disappearing. "At least someone made it out alive. Yeah, Bert is—uh—"

"I'll call him back. Tell him whatever," says Reiner. He's too tired to deal with this.

Never tell Jean Kirschtein to tell someone whatever, though, because he'll—tell them whatever. He shrugs one shoulder and returns his attention to Bert's phone. "He'll take a rain check. Something supremely fucked up happened to him last night. He's gonna need a lot of time to recover from it."

"Jean!" Marco gasps, and Jean looks up at him in confusion.

"Hold on, Arm—what?"

"Jean," says Marco again, exasperated. " _Jean_." He seems to have forgotten all other words again.

Jean frowns at him, then turns away, pointedly covering his free ear. "Sure. Yeah, I'll tell him. It's not my place to—yeah. Okay. Marco is giving me the stink-eye, so I have to go. Tee-tee-why-el."

Despite everything, Reiner snorts. Jean's cheeks redden.

"No! I said—see you in hell! Bye!" He hangs up fast and throws Bert's phone onto the couch as if it burnt him, shuddering. He looks at Marco. "I just used an internet acronym aloud," he explains, cringing. "Then I told Armin Arlert he was going to hell to try to cover it."

"I heard," says Marco. He sighs. "Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag."

"Uh, the cat is still in the bag?" says Jean. "I didn't tell him anything. I was subtle."

"You weren't subtle; you were _Jean_ -subtle. You told him enough that he's going to worry himself sick, and then he'll tell Eren, and then Eren is going to text Reiner through the group chat instead of PM on accident, and then everyone is going to freak out and send Bert panic-messages until Reiner makes something up to get them off Bert's back."

Jean pulls a face that's supposed to be dark, but just looks sleepy and sullen. "Got this all worked out, haven't you."

"I know you guys."

Reiner feels weird and tired; partly normal, partly guilty for feeling that way. Partly destroyed. He realizes he's still holding the bread and puts it down, checking Jean's fridge for sandwich fillings. There're two blocks of cheddar in one of the crispers. Reiner picks up the one that isn't moldy and starts slicing it up for grilled cheese. "Sorry, Jean," he says. "I'll give you grocery money."

"For bread and cheese?" says Jean, rolling his eyes, then flinches with the motion. "Fuck. Get me a big-ass glass of water and some aspirin and we'll call it even."

Marco is already crossing the kitchen and reaching for the cup Jean keeps on the counter by his single plate, bowl, and fork, so Reiner focuses on turning on the stove and hunting down a pan. He has barely closed the cabinet door when the text notifications start pouring in, one after the other: Marco's water droplet sound effect, Reiner and Bert's matching oboe glissandos, Jean's voice clip of Eren screaming, "WHERE THE FUCK WAS THE MIA?", stuttering from the rapid arrivals.

 **01:32pm Eren** : Hey, whats wrong with Bert??  
**01:32pm Eren** : Ahhh sorry, wc  
**01: 33pm Sasha** : Something's wrong with Bert?  
**01: 33pm Connie** : ?? B are you ok  
**01: 33pm Connie** : Reiner is B ok ???  
**01:33pm Annie** : ?

"Look at what you've done," Marco groans.

"Look at what _you've_ done," Jean counters nonsensically, muffled by his hands. Then, as Marco reaches him with the water and painkillers: "God bless you."

For a long while, the only sound in the apartment is Reiner's knife on the cutting board, then the butter hissing in the pan. He'd almost forgotten that they hadn't even talked yet—after the shower, Bert had gone directly to sleep in Jean's bed at Jean's own insistence, and Reiner joined him. Marco hadn't been home by the time he'd nodded off. It occurred to him belatedly that Marco had had the foresight to grab his phone from the apartment, plus his laptop and a bunch of clothes and shit that was neatly stacked on the table. God bless him, indeed.

"Thanks," he says suddenly, at the same time Marco says, tentatively, "Reiner—"

They both stop. "You go," says Reiner.

"You, please."

"Marco. Go."

Marco relents, though he takes a long few seconds to chew at his lower lip, trying to think of how to word it. At last, he says, simply, "Did he tell you what happened?"

Reiner's not sure why the question catches him by surprise. It's the most logical thing anyone could ask at this point, but he tenses so fast that a muscle in his shoulder twinges. He winces at rubs and it, glad for something to do with his hand. His throat closes up again. He swallows twice, hard.

"You don't have to say anything," says Marco quickly.

"I—think he'll want you to know the gist so you don't end up asking him personally."

"Okay."

He and Jean wait, not speaking or moving. Reiner takes a deep breath.

"A classmate or someone drove him home and—" the word 'raped' was still unthinkable, and 'forced' was too dismissive. The fucker had _hit_ him. Hit a barely-conscious young man hard enough to split his lip and blacken his eye. Reiner forces himself to stand up straighter and speaks with simple, matter-of-fact dignity. "He assaulted him while he was drugged."

Lips pursed, Marco closes his eyes. His throat bobs. He nods in acknowledgement.

"Fuck," says Jean in a thin, fragile voice. " _Bert_."

"Well, anyway, Marco," Reiner says, way too fast, "I was just gonna say thanks for going over there and picking up all our stuff. You just barely got in from Europe, and we have you running all over town doing errands. I—I really didn't want to go back there, either. The place is, like—kind of ruined now. You know?"

"Yeah," says Marco, quiet. "It's no problem."

More silence. Jean, nowhere near as socially clueless as he used to be, would've normally caught on to Reiner's next question and taken pity on him, but he's too hung over and stunned by the details of Bert's attack, so Reiner has to say it flat out: "Jean. I hate to have to ask this, but—could Bert and I crash here for a while? Just until we find someone to sublet and get a new lease?"

"Oh, sure," says Jean, looking uncomfortably around his messy apartment. He spends most of his time here, gaming or livestreaming, so his agreeing to share his private space so readily is no small favor. "Of course you can. If we could just rotate who gets the bed sometimes—"

"Man, no, it's your bed. By the way, thanks for the use of it last night."

"It's all good."

"I think I can do you one better," says Marco after a moment.

Reiner and Jean both look at him. The first grilled cheese is done; Reiner passes it to Marco, who hands it off automatically to Jean. Jean takes a grateful bite, and Marco waits until he has finished chewing and swallowing to continue.

"I'm, um, back for good now. I've got a place in town, two bedrooms, one bath, close to Bert's school if he can keep going to—close to Bert's school. You're welcome to move in with me as a more permanent arrangement."

There's a light _pat_ as Jean drops his sandwich into his lap. Reiner turns to Marco again, eyesight blurring, momentarily lost for words. How is Marco like this? How does Marco manage to always have exactly what his friends need when they need it, physically and emotionally? Marco stares back, smiling softly as he acknowledges Reiner's unspoken gratitude.

"You're moving back?" says Jean, with forced, trying-not-to-make-it-about-him nonchalance.

Marco laughs, scratches nervously at the side of his nose. "Y-yeah."

"Ah," Jean says faintly. It's super fucking cute. Reiner has to grin, the first one that has felt real since the previous night. He reaches over to grip Marco's shoulder and lets his hand linger there for a long, meaningful moment.

"Bruh," he says.

"B-bro," Marco returns, sounding hopelessly unnatural, and he, Reiner, and Jean laugh hard for a little longer than they need to, bleeding out some of the tension.

"Okay, well, until we move in, we're gonna be eating a lot of grilled cheeses," says Reiner.

"I'll go grocery shopping," Marco offers.

"Oh, no, you fucking won't," says Jean. "You'll already be canonized for all the shit you've done for us in the last twenty-four hours. I'll go shopping. Once the aspirin kicks in, I mean."

Reiner has never met better people. On a whim, he pulls the pan off the stovetop and walks back to the living room, looping an arm around Marco's shoulders along the way. He hauls Jean off the couch and smashes the two of them into a hug, ignoring their playful protests, and makes sure to navigate them nearly pelvis-to pelvis before he disengages. Hey, one good turn deserves another. The two of them separate, flushing mightily and not looking at each other, which means they both catch the little hitch of Reiner's breath as he gulps back a sob.

"Hey," says Jean, gingerly touching his hand. "It's going to be okay, man."

"Yeah," says Reiner, smiling. He can't know that, and neither can Jean, but he's still glad someone had the courage to say it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are bad. Pho Q.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short, transitional bit--it's supposed to function as a means of introducing the time lapse, which I feel is a misstep in some ways, but I'm hoping to play a longer game when it comes to Bert's healing. Feels a little more realistic to me. Back to Reiner and Bert next chapter, and what they've been up to. Thank you so much for reading! Please comment if you would like!

"I just—I think we're too young for marriage, Reiner," Bertolt says, voice choked. "I think we should wait."

 _Holy shit_. Jean stops so suddenly that Marco bumps into him, and Armin into Marco, and all the way down the line until Sasha, bringing up the rear and out of earshot, says, "Ow. The hell's the holdup? You find the pupusa stand?" 

"Umm," says Jean, shuffling backwards, causing even more of a traffic jam. Why the fuck did Bert have to drop this bomb on a single-file sidewalk? They just got out of a crappy rom-com; what could possibly have incited this conversation? "I, uh—let's go—uh—"

"Pho," suggests Armin strategically, probably because they just passed Pho Q, and Reiner and Bert could not be more in need of alone time. Thank you, Armin. Jean nods, makes awkward finger guns, and turns around to reroute his clump of friends.

From their faces, it's obvious who heard and who didn't. Marco and Armin look shocked, stricken. Mikasa's eyes are wide. Eren missed it; he's glaring at something on his phone, and Sasha and Connie are already strolling back to the little hipster noodle restaurant, playfully elbowing and scoffing at each other. Jean bustles them along, trying to get them as far away as he can without being too obvious. Though he has, according to Marco, been known to be clueless about that sort of thing. 'Jean-subtle,' he calls it. Rude.

He steals just one glance back over his shoulder, and immediately wishes he hadn't. Reiner's got Bert backed against the brick facing of the restaurant they'd been passing, elbows hemming him in, trying to force eye contact. He brushes his lips against Bert's. Bert allows it for a moment, leaning in even as his shoulders hitch with sobs, then he ducks abruptly under Reiner's arm and begins walking away fast.

"Oh, fuck," says Marco in a thin voice, openly watching. And he calls _Jean_ clueless. He takes three steps after them before Jean manages to catch his sleeve, holding him back as Reiner pursues Bert, both of them disappearing into the mid-afternoon crowd. Marco whirls on Jean, brows furrowed in frustration: "Jean, what the hell? We can't leave them alone right now!"

"We've gotta," says Jean numbly. He doesn't even know how or why he knows this, but he's positive this is the right call—Reiner and Bert wouldn't want them to see them like this. It'd kill them more than they've already been killed. "We'll, uh—we'll wait for one of them to call, then—"

"They buffed him again," Eren interrupts, thrusting his phone into Jean's face. "One-point-five second stealth? That's bullshit."

"Who cares, he's shit-tier," says Jean automatically.

"Yeah, but it's fucking annoying. Vision wards for days."

"As if you ever buy wards."

That pisses Eren off, and they bicker about gaming strategy all the way to the pho place, though Jean's heart isn't in it and he's honestly just trying to avoid the beseeching looks Marco keeps sending him. Eventually Mikasa intervenes, asking Marco something in her brisk, quiet voice, and she, Marco, and Armin slow down to talk privately. By the time they catch up to Connie and Sasha, they're at their usual table with a plate of bean sprouts, lime wedges, and basil.

"Where are Bert and Reiner?" asks Sasha, mouth full.

"They needed to take care of something," says Jean.

"Really? That was abrupt."

"You're telling me."

Connie and Sasha frown at each other. The Take-Care-of-Me twins get a bad rap for how observant they actually are, how empathetic. Connie unlocks his phone and types something into the group chat. Notifications chime all around. "That was me," Connie replies, to offset the mass reaching-for-of-mobiles. Not fifteen seconds later, another series of beeps. "That one...wasn't me."

Jean checks, hoping it's Bert or Reiner with a silly emoticon, telling them that everything's all right. It's not.

 **02:02pm Connie** : B R wats wrong, we at pho ^3^  
**02:02pm Annie** : Seriously, what the fucks going on??

That's right. Annie must be going crazy down in Flagstaff, since apparently Reiner and Bert haven't been keeping the third member of their trio in the loop. Poor Annie. Jean decides not to give them a choice anymore. He pulls up the keyboard on his phone as Marco takes a seat next to another open chair, clearly intending it for Jean.

 **02:03pm You** : Annie, call Reiner after class.

"Jean, that wasn't your place," says Mikasa quietly, eyes on her phone, hanging back.

"Hey, Reiner doesn't have to say anything he doesn't want to," says Jean, even though his ears and cheeks are reddening, the way they always do when Mikasa chastises him. Or smiles at him. Or, really, acknowledges him. "Wouldn't you want to know if Eren and Armin's relationship was on the rocks?"

"Not the same," she argues as Armin, passing by, pauses and glances at her sidelong.

"Why not?" asks Jean.

"Because—because they wouldn't be having these kinds of problems."

"That's what we all thought about Reiner and Bert."

Mikasa doesn't say anything, but Jean knows she's conceding his point. She glances between Eren and Armin, eyes alive with fierce affection and protectiveness, and takes Armin's elbow so she can sit beside him on the booth side of the table. She even holds his hand casually. Jean sits down beside Marco, wishing the two of them had that same easy physical relationship. Every time they touch, it's like being electrocuted. There's nothing superfluous between them, and that's as much a curse as a blessing.

Maybe it's good that he's not living with Marco. For that reason—among others.

Apparently Bert and Reiner have been sniping at each other for the better part of a month now. Jean's not sure who started it, but when he finally caught on, Bert was upset about Reiner wearing his shoes inside the apartment, and Reiner was freaking out over Bert forgetting to text him, and they were practically sobbing themselves to sleep in separate beds. Marco and Reiner have been rooming together as a result. Jean can tell because Marco smells like sawdust and musky aftershave now, and even knowing the circumstances, it makes his stomach twist with jealousy. That was supposed to be _his_ bed with Marco. That was supposed to be the beginning of his happiness, not the end of theirs.

 _Selfish_ , Jean scolds himself, pouring his tea so vehemently that he splashes Armin a little. Reiner and Bert are fucking falling apart, and Jean's salty about two trustworthy, platonic bunkmates.

But Jean is still acclimating to this Marco thing—this thing where they maybe sort of love each other, and that something is finally possible between them. Marco is _back_. Even now, three weeks after helping him move into his nice new two-bedroom apartment, it doesn't seem real. They haven’t talked about it, but Marco has been a lot more intense lately. Got Jean an achingly personal gift for his birthday: a paperweight (because Marco's an eighty-year-old man who still uses paperweights) with a picture of the two of them from elementary school in it, accompanied by two yellow rosebuds. Buds, not blossoms. That means something, Jean thinks. He's just not sure what.

Still no Reiner or Bert by the time the food arrives. While everyone's digging in, Marco bumps knees with Jean under the table. Jean jumps hard enough that he rattles the place settings. "Jean-subtle," says Marco, sighing with reluctant fondness, and nods toward his lap. He's angling his phone toward Jean. Jean leans back, tilts it a little so he can read Marco's last text conversation:

 **2:30pm Reiner** : Weddings off.  
**2:30pm You** : What??????  
**2:31pm Reiner** : Yeah. Berts saying we should wait.  
**2:31pm You** : Well it's not like you've broken up, right?  
**2:31pm Reiner** : Right yeah  
**2:32pm You** : He just needs some time.  
**2:32pm Reiner** : Sure  
**2:35pm Reiner** : He gave me back the ring

"Ah, fuck," says Jean under his breath.

"What you said," says Marco.

 **2:36pm You** : Come have pho with us  
**2:36pm Reiner** : No I'm taking Bert home  
**2:36pm Reiner** : Have Sash give you and Jean a ride back if you don’t mind  
**2:36pm You** : Okay. I'll bring you carry-out  
**2:37pm Reiner** : Ty I'm not hungry  
**2:37pm Reiner** : If you could get Bert something tho?  
**2:37pm Reiner** : He hasn’t been eating.

"He's so messed up," says Marco in a low voice. "I noticed the eating thing too. When I make dinner, he takes like two bites and then sort of spreads the food around to make it look like he ate more than he really did."

Jean's throat feels tight. He takes a drink of water, trying to chase the feeling away. "He needs to see a therapist or something."

"I know, but he refuses. He won't talk to the police, either. He won't even talk to Reiner."

"Is that's what's causing this—thing between them?"

"I don't think it's that simple."

"I mean, of course it isn't. I know that. He can't just go and be okay after a sexual assault."

Oh, fuck. He said that directly into a lapse in conversation; it could not have been more audible. Armin's spoon splashes back into his soup, and the whole booth goes even quieter, everyone trying to listen in without actually looking at them. Marco pales so completely that his freckles stand out. He grabs Jean's hand under the table and squeezes. Jean's not sure if it's meant for moral support or to scold, but he squeezes back with the same white-knuckled force.

Connie breaks the silence. "What?"

"Fuck," says Jean simply.

No one's sure how to engage that, apparently, because Connie just purses his lips, Eren spears a chunk of chicken with a little too much enthusiasm, and Armin sits very still with his eyes fixed on the dessert menu. 

"Jean, what happened to Bert?" asks Mikasa at last.

"I don't—"

"We all heard you," Eren points out.

"Yeah, I got that part. I just—fuck. It's not my place—"

"They know," says Marco, voice layered with some unidentifiable tone. "Reiner said Bert doesn’t care as long as he doesn't have to say it. They might as well hear it from us, yeah?"

But Marco just sits there and sips his water, so Jean ends up having to tell the whole story. Him, not Marco or Reiner or even Bert himself, which means the grisly details don't get softened, and there's a sort of drunken hysteria to it that paints the situation as even more horrible than it actually was—no small feat. He finds himself getting stuck on the way Bert looked when he got out of the shower at Jean's place, scrubbed so clean his arms and legs were red, eyes wet and lost. _Sleep in my bed_ , Jean had instructed, and Bert demurred before Reiner folded an arm around his waist and guided him into the bedroom.

It was, Jean realizes, the last time he'd seen the two of them acting with any sort of physical intimacy. Was that Bert's preference, or was Reiner afraid to touch him? That's where and when things started going to shit, likely.

"Jean," says Eren, with the urgency of someone repeating themselves for the third time.

Jean stirs himself. "What?"

"I asked what we can do to help. Do he and Reiner need anything? Groceries, movies, uh—I don't know, board games or something?"

"Why would they want fucking board games," says Jean.

"Well, fuck," says Eren, throwing up his arms. "I'm trying here."

"I'll bake a casserole," Sasha decides. Her eyes are damp.

Everyone stares at her with wonder. A Sorry-You-Got-Raped casserole. It's both ridiculous and exactly right; the perfect gesture, the perfect weight of touch. Jean's immediately jealous. All he's done in a month for Bert is lodge him for a single night, play some casual Starcraft, and pick him up a burrito from Taco Titan because he was going there anyway and his tourney money was burning a hole in his pocket. But a fucking Sasha casserole. Bert's gonna know exactly what it's for, and that nothing is expected of him in return—and fuck, Sasha makes amazing casseroles.

He must be making some kind of face, because everyone is staring at him. Not critically, though. In surprise, and, bizarrely, sympathy. Jean doesn't even realize he's all choked up until he tries to speak and sort of sob-coughs instead. It startles even himself.

"Please don't tell him I told you," says Jean thickly.

"We won't," Sasha promises. She's already graduated from sadness to anger. She stabs at her meal.

"Not like he's gonna ask anyway," Connie points out, frowning. He props his hands behind his head, rocking back a little in his chair. "Man, the night of your birthday party—that was a long time ago. We never would've known."

"I would've," says Armin suddenly.

Jean glances at him curiously. "Yeah?"

"He canceled five of our seven lunch dates this past month, and the two he made, he was just—I knew something was wrong. It's not that he wasn't _himself_ —he was just—the himself he was as a child. Does that make sense?"

Too much, in fact. As soon as Armin says it, it dawns in Jean's mind. That's what this has been: regression. Bert's back to skulking around in corners, using the bathroom at night to avoid people, making himself scarce whenever things start getting loud. He was such a skittish kid. Didn’t really start coming out of his shell until he was a junior in high school, when he started dating Reiner, and it still took him another few years to start opening up to Marco and Jean. Even today, Jean doesn't know much about their upbringing, except that it must've taken them both tremendous courage to get through.

High school, those years of hell. Too much shit had happened. To all of them. He thought they'd paid their suffering dues, but apparently life had more in store for them.

Every day, Jean muses, he probably crosses paths with dozens of people who've been on the receiving end of terrible violence, like Armin or Bert or Mikasa. Their circumstances aren't comparable, but Jean knows what it's like to feel sick, overexposed, compromised.

He feels suddenly tired. He slouches in his seat, still holding Marco's hand, and the contact has become distinctly affectionate.

"Maybe—you could talk to Reiner, Eren?" suggests Marco softly, which is purely tactical, because it implies the parallel he's really getting at: maybe Armin could talk to Bert. Armin, being the smart cookie he is, gets it immediately.

"That's a good idea," he says in a small voice.

"Um. Only if you want to."

"I want to," says Armin. He swallows audibly. "Hitting him while he was incapacitated—that's so—"

"Fucked up?" says Eren. He's massacring his noodles; they're basically mush now.

"Yeah," says Armin, "but I was going to say—personal."

This is dangerous territory. Everyone stalls at the same time again, eating or drinking or studying the décor that they've seen dozens of times before. Marco finally speaks up.

"Who could possibly have something against Bertie?"

"Maybe it's someone with something against Reiner," says Sasha, face still screwed up in anger.

That's hardly likely, either. Reiner's friends adore him. His coworkers adore him. People fucking passing him on the street adore him. Jean's been so caught up thinking about what happened to Bert that he's never really considered the who or the why, and those questions burn him now. His fury is still so impotent. No one to expend it on. He can't imagine how Reiner feels, how badly he must want to eviscerate the bastard who hurt his fiancé.

 _Ex-fiancé_ , he corrects himself.

They haven't told everyone that part yet.

"'Scuse me, I need the bathroom," says Armin suddenly, dropping his napkin onto the table and scooting over Mikasa. In record time, he's hurrying down the hallway near the kitchens. Eren scrambles over Mikasa too, still holding his chopsticks.

"Eren—" Jean begins.

"Not your fault," says Eren, accepting the unspoken apology, and disappears after his boyfriend.

They finish eating in silence, no Armin or Eren. Connie picks up the table's entire tab, which can't be cheap, but he waves away their protests. "I just got paid," he explains. "Let me make up for all the times I've mooched off you guys." He even has the host run his card for Bert's takeout order, which Bert certainly didn't ask for, and is probably going to end up sitting in the refrigerator for a week before Marco fretfully eats it so it doesn't go to waste. They're just standing up when Jean's phone and Jean's phone alone emits its Eren-tantruming-like-a-child notification sound.

 **2:54pm Reiner** : Can I stay at your place for a while?

Everyone stares at him while he reads it, feigning disinterest. Jean tries to keep his face neutral, but he's always been transparent; he bites his lip as he types out his reply. 

**2:55pm You** : Yeah, man. Anything you need.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay! This was a hard, whiplashy chapter to write; we'll get back to Marco, Jean, and some happier things in the next part. Warning for intergluteal sex, language, references to assault, etc.

Shhh, don't tell anyone: Reiner and Bert don't actually watch all of Jean and Eren's gaming videos. Who can blame them? They post new content once or twice a day, and the matches are at least forty minutes long, and it's repetitive because Jean is always in Eren's videos, and Eren is always in Jean's, and they somehow feel the need to upload _both_ feeds to show who was doing what and where and with which items—

Reiner just doesn't have time for that. Hell, he's pretty sure _Jean and Eren_ don't have time for that; Eren openly admitted that he never rewatches his own material. _I want my footage to be really raw, really real_ , he'd said once, with absolute sincerity. Reiner had sprayed milk out his nose.

So, instead: highlight compilations. Because these two morons have no shortage of fans willing to wade through their bullshit for gems. And this was apparently a very eventful week on both of their channels because of some sort of fight they'd gotten into on the champion select screen, which had resulted in someone autotuning their argument into the Final Countdown: "That's a shiiiit ban!" "Go ffffuck yourself!" "You're a bitch cake!" "You're a fuck pie and I wooon't have you chaaaallege my authorityyyyy in front of Yaaaams—"

Yams is Eren's cat.

Reiner and Bert only turned the video on to break the silence after they got home from their very public argument, but they end up listening to the remix about twenty times, laughing themselves to tears. Reiner is happy in that moment, _so fucking happy_ , because a) it really is a hilarious video, b) it's the first time he's heard Bert laugh like this since that night, and c) maybe this means that being unengaged isn't going to hurt like he thought it would. Just—maybe.

So they act like they're not hurting, and it works, at least for now. Bert's got a goofy laugh and he starts coughing when he really gets going. Reiner loves that. They're lying together on Marco's guest bed with their legs intertwined, laptop propped on the pillows, and when Bertolt turns to him, smiling and shiny-eyed, Reiner can't help but to lean forward and give him a long, deep kiss.

"Mmm," Bert murmurs, returning his attentions with soft little pecks along Reiner's jaw, all the way up toward the studs in his left earlobe. He'd gotten the piercings the same day Bert had gotten the sparrow tattoo on his hip, and that's still one of his favorite things to mouth at. He tugs Bert's waistband down around his thighs to rub the little bird's wings with his thumb, shoving the laptop aside so he has room to roll Bert onto his back.

They kiss languorously. Bert's legs part, and Reiner presses between them, already shamefully hard. He sucks at Bert's neck as he hikes his shirt up, baring Bert's gorgeous chest, his pretty nipples. Fuck, the sight of him still takes Reiner's breath away. He exhales slowly, smiling.

"You're so beautiful," he says.

Bert glances away, uncomfortable. "You are."

"You," says Reiner with finality.

Sometimes Reiner still can't believe Bertolt wants to be with him. The guy looks like a fucking model and is completely oblivious to it—he once casually referred to himself as a two out of ten to Reiner's eleven, to which he received blank stares and a slap upside the head from Annie (she had to jump to do it). Reiner reaches down between Bert's legs to grasp his cock, just beginning to awaken, and strokes gently. Bert needs a light touch these days, losing his erection at rough handling or sometimes for no discernable reason at all; some private thing that makes Reiner ache to think about. He would never flatter himself by thinking he ever knew Bert entirely, but at least he used to be understandable, his motives grounded in some shared history that Reiner could puzzle out if he mulled it over for long enough.

 _Why, baby_? Reiner thinks, jerking him off in careful, tender tugs. What makes him flinch when his legs are too wide; why does he spook now when Reiner's kisses are too wet or too long?

He is careful to keep his own erection away from Bert, but Bert reaches into his pants and frees it into his palm, hot and throbbing. Reiner groans, unable to help himself from grinding into Bert's tight fist. Bert smiles all small and shy, as if he's surprised he can get Reiner going like this, and begins to stroke. Fuck. _Fuck_ , Bert's so good and so beautiful and so _giving_ , and he doesn't even have to offer Reiner this; Reiner would never touch Bert again if Bert said that's what would make him happy. He squeezes Bert's left nipple lightly, presses a soft kiss to the crest of his cheekbone—

"Aaah!" Bert cries out suddenly, with palpable fear.

Reiner scrambles off of him immediately, hands raised, palms out. "I'm sorry! What did I—"

"Nothing," Bert sobs, sitting up. "It's not you, I just—" he drags his sleeve across his face, trying to steady his breathing. He smiles, small and brave and shaky. "It's fine, it's okay. Just—here, instead let's—"

Carefully, Bert climbs into his lap and leans forward, reaching back to navigate Reiner's cock against the cleft of his ass. It feels fucking amazing, but Reiner doesn't move yet—he's frozen, studying Bert with open distress even as Bert's tense face smoothes out, eyes growing dark and calm and dry again. Bert sighs softly, with pleasure. He's not erect anymore and doesn't seem the least bit concerned about it, rocking slowly upward, dragging Reiner's heat along with him.

"Oh," Bert whispers. "Oh, yes, Reiner. Is this good for you?"

"It's amazing, but—if you don't want—"

"I want this for you."

"We don't have to. You don't have to do this."

"I know, Bee. Come on. Let me make you feel good."

Between the old, rare pet name and the slide of his erection between Bert's firm cheeks, Reiner is a fucking goner. He puts his hands on Bert's hips and begins to buck up against him hard and slow, rocking Bert along his cock, fucking that tight, lovely seam of him. Bert pitches forward, gasping. His throat, accessible from this angle, looks so delicate and vulnerable that Reiner can't help but press his lips to the pulse point there, kissing softly. "Is this okay?" he asks.

"A-ah," responds Bert, voice hitching. He braces one hand on Reiner's shoulder and the other on the wall, arching his back so Reiner's dick strokes his unused opening with every stroke, the soft undersides of his balls. "Reiner..."

He thrusts for a while, holding himself back whenever he's close, hoping to get Bert hard again—but Bert does seem to be getting honest gratification out of this, despite his flaccid length. They kiss. Bert hums into his mouth, quiet and happy. Eventually Reiner has to let himself go, coming in hard spurts across the backs of his thighs, the curved small of Bert's spine. He's shaking like mad. He stares straight into Bert's eyes as they catch their breath, and Bert stares back, eyes unreadable.

They haven't had sex since before Jean's birthday. That'd been something spontaneous, just some casual post-shower kissing that turned into blowjobs and desperate humping on the bathmat. The free, joyous climate of it had been so different from this, so careful and unsure. Reiner doesn't want Bert to walk away from this feeling discontented. He reaches between Bert's legs, but Bert deflects him with one knee.

"You didn't come."

"It's okay." Bert nestles down against Reiner's chest, then pulls back, wincing. "What do you have under—" he begins—then liberates their engagement rings from beneath Reiner's collar, now sharing the same ball-chain that Reiner uses to host his house keys and medical ID tag and the wing pendant Annie gave him for his fourteenth birthday. He never leaves home without any of these items.

"Just—just in case," Reiner stammers, not even sure what he means. In case _what_? In case Bert gets magically unraped and untraumatized and decides to believe he deserves happiness again? He fiddles with the pearls, equal parts defensive and uncertain, and tucks them back underneath his shirt when Bert's expression doesn't change. They sit there in silence, Bert still in Reiner's lap, avoiding eye contact despite the intimacy of what they just shared.

"I'm going to go shower," says Bert at last, voice strained. He stands up quickly, pausing only to hitch his pants back up and toss Reiner the box of Kleenex on the dresser, and slips into the hallway.

"Bert."

"Hm?" Bert doesn't return to the bedroom, just stands beyond the threshold, his shadow ghosting the carpet.

"I hope you know I'm going to wait for you forever," says Reiner.

"Reiner—"

"No pressure. I'm just saying, it's—it's _you_. There will never be anyone else."

"I know," says Bert, his voice tight and strained. He leans against the wall outside, even though this is no easier without eye contact. "I feel the same way, you _know_ I—"

"I know. I love you," Reiner says, and he does, with every ounce of his being. Bert seems to think that it's conditional: Reiner couldn't possibly love him if they're not engaged, if he's taking another break from school, if he stays too quiet at a party, if he forgets to run the clothes dryer before seven. Reiner doesn't get it. "Why are you worried, baby? When have I ever stopped loving you?"

"I love you too, Reiner, I just—I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be," says Reiner, but Bert is already closing the door. Reiner sighs. They've been through this a hundred times this afternoon: Bert doesn't want to get married yet. That's all, and that's everything. Reiner asked why over and over again before he realized it doesn't matter: he's going to honor Bert's wishes at any cost, with or without an explanation. He can't give up, but that's not Bert's fault. None of this is. Not their tension or their recent bickering or the pain Reiner feels knowing that Bert hurts when he sees their engagement rings.

Reiner cleans himself up as best he can, grimacing at the mess they'd made of the sheets. He strips the bed, starts scrounging together a load of lights from the hamper in Marco's bedroom and the bathrooms. Bert doesn't speak to him when he sneaks in for the laundry, doesn't hear him. He's a soft, beautiful shape behind the hazy shower curtain, scrubbing his hair and neck in slow, contemplative circles. Just the smell of his shampoo makes Reiner ache.

It's only outside again that he finds his cell phone, still on silent from the movie. Two unread texts, but five missed calls from Annie. Reiner winces. For her to call more than once indicates all the urgency of an apocalypse. Five in one hour is a terrifying new record. 

Annie Leonhardt is the only person who stands above the blur of faces that was Reiner's childhood. The daughter of his fourth and final foster father, Annie had treated him with cool, matter-of-fact interest, offering neither the bland inattention or the cloying affection that had dichotomized his experiences in his group home. She was curt, distantly polite. Intriguing in a way that didn’t need rescuing. She'd singlehandedly taken care of herself, Reiner, and Bert for the three years it took her to carry them through middle school, where they finally took root and blossomed, meeting the people who would become their lifelong friends: Jean at a swimming meet, Marco through Jean, Mikasa and Eren and Armin during a pep rally scuffle against a rival team that had gotten three of them suspensions and Annie a wicked black eye.

She had been there for all of it: the fistfights, the romances, the heartbreaks. The disasters. He'd been wrong to exclude her. She is in this with them, and she always will be—whether or not he gives her a fucking phone call.

Letting out a slow breath, he unlocks his cell and dials her, hoping she'll take a while to answer.

She picks up before the first ring is complete.

"Hi," says Reiner.

"Reiner Braun. What the _fuck_." Her voice is beyond cold. It's fucking arctic. 

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Haven't heard fuck from you in a month. Haven't even heard shit."

"Swear jar—" Reiner begins, trying weakly to joke.

"I will cram the swear jar so far up your ass—"

"—thank you, yes, I love having jars in my ass—"

"—be able to taste the—"

"—thank you, Annie, thanks. Yeah, that'd be awesome."

Annie gives up verbally, but Reiner knows her expression is no less murderous. She's banging cupboard doors like a mofo in the background; he can practically feel the wood shuddering. A mixer roars on briefly. One of her disgusting dinner health smoothies, probably. She is polite enough to swear at him only under sound of the blender, and by the time it quiets, so has she. "Reiner," she says, calmer, "something has happened, hasn't it?"

"Yeah." Reiner flops backwards onto the bed, one arm crossed over his eyes. It's hard to say aloud: "We broke off our engagement."

Long silence on Annie's end. "Why?"

"He said he thinks we're too young to get married. That we can't—I don't know. Know that we're right for each other yet."

"What a load of bunkum," she says, which is cute as fuck, and Reiner has to suppress a smile.

"I know. I mean, we've been squabbling a little lately, but it's not really about us anymore. Too much has been going on. Marco's back, obviously, and he and Jean are doing their, you know, Marco-Jean dance, and there's regionals coming up, and Bert's taking a semester off. Plus—"

"Bert loves school. Why is he taking a break?"

Reiner pauses, derailed. He'd been all set with his tangents about his own job, Bert's reemployment at the diner, the dirty joke Connie had told him a few days ago—anything except the issue at hand. He'd almost forgotten that he can't get away with that shit with Annie, who had naturally zeroed in on Bert's decision not to go back to school: she's the only other one of their group still pursuing higher education (aside from Armin, who is probably going to be happily attending doctorate programs well into his sixties). College is important to Bert; it has come to mean something symbolic to both him and Reiner, something about life. His giving it up is grave news.

"Reiner," says Annie flatly. "Tell me what's really going on."

Fuck. Okay. He takes a deep breath. He's been rehearsing this in his head ever since Jean's text message, damn him, but the words seem too small now, too glib and insufficient. He stares at the ceiling, listening to the shower running in the hall bathroom. His fingers slip back under his collar and find the engagement rings, cold against his bare chest.

"He was attacked, Annie," he says at last.

He knows he misspoke when he hears Annie's short, confused pause. "A hate crime?"

"No. Uh. Shit. I mean—yes in a way; every crime is hateful, I guess, but—"

"Tell me what happened to him."

Reiner squeezes his eyes shut and takes a slow, deep breath. "He was raped by a classmate."

The background clattering sounds stop. There's a long, sudden silence. 

"Annie?"

"He—what? Are you fucking with me?"

"I wouldn't joke about this. We found him after Jean's birthday party and took him to the hospital. He—"

"Who?" she interrupts. "Wh—why?" Her voice is cracking. She can't seem to decide on a question.

"He won't tell me who," says Reiner thickly.

More silence.

"The guy dropped him off at our place after astronomy," Reiner continues, once he's sure she's not going to speak again. "Bert had taken his insomnia meds. He was fucking helpless, Annie. They did a forensic exam, but he's not pressing char— _Annie_?"

Oh, fuck, she's crying. Reiner can barely hear her, but her breaths are wet and shuddery, and she's holding the mouthpiece away in an attempt to hide it. He's only seen her cry twice—once for Armin, once after she'd woken up in the hospital after the accident—and the sound of it breaks Reiner's heart. He sits up, clutching his phone with both hands. God, he wishes he were there to hold her.

"Annie. Annie Banannie. I'm here, okay? I'm right here with you."

"Don't call me that," she sobs, sounding, despite everything, like she could still kill him with the fuzzy end of a toothbrush. "Ugh, fuck. Now I have a headache. Is Bert there? I want to talk to him."

"He's in the shower."

"Have him call me when he's out. How is he?"

The million-dollar question. "He's—it's not good. I think he managed to take some of his finals online, but he hasn't been back to campus since. He's working at the diner again."

"He hates the diner."

"I guess he hates it less than school now."

"I could fucking kill whoever ruined this for him." It's not a figure of speech when she says it; it's a pledge. "I'll visit next week," she decides, sniffling.

"You don't have to—"

"I'm gonna."

"I just—okay, I'm hopefully rooming with Jean and Bert's with Marco, so we don't have a place for you to crash."

"You're not even living together? Jesus, Reiner. You should've called me sooner." Annie's finally calm enough to hit the blender again. It flares on in short, furious bursts. "I'll stay with Mikasa."

"Don't you think that you should ask Mikasa first?"

He can practically hear her blink. "Why?"

Good point. "Never mind."

"You should talk with Eren and Armin."

"Yeah, I'm going to."

"And you'd better start notifying people about the wedding being off."

Reiner whines. He hadn't thought of that. The flowers, the music, the photographer, the officiant—the reception venue, oh man. The Rod Reiss Room at Bert's school, a beautiful banquet hall that they'd managed to book despite its cost and popularity thanks to Krista's lofty connections. Bert had checked it out alone first, peeking in between classes, and texted Reiner to say no. _Too beautiful_ , he'd written. Bert actually believed in such excuses: too beautiful, too kind, too good. Reiner stopped by himself that following Sunday, saw the brightness of Bert's eyes, and reserved it. They aren't extravagant people, but Reiner has long since decided they can afford anything that makes Bert glow that softly, that warmly.

"Maybe we can just keep all our bookings and have a drunken hoedown instead," says Reiner. "We could have a wedding-cake-eating contest."

"That's how I like my square dances," says Annie. "To string quartets."

He sighs, and she huffs her short, low laugh, husky with tears.

"I've gotta go," she says. "I'm teaching a self-defense class at the community center in fifteen minutes."

"Godspeed."

" _Have Bertolt call me._ " Each word is like a jab in the stomach. "And Reiner?"

"Mm?"

"Don't you ever do this to me again," says Annie.

"I won't. I'm sorry."

"Damn right you are."

She hangs up first. Reiner just sits there with the phone to his ear for a long moment, feeling heavy and tired, then lowers it into his lap. One of his texts is from Marco—they'll be home in about ten minutes with food for Bert, and everyone is in the loop about what happened to him—and one from Jean: _Yeah, man. Anything you need_. Looks like Reiner's got a place to stay now; he can finally give Bert some of the space at night he's been requesting these last few weeks.

Reiner smiles a little. Jean would flip if he knew Reiner was sharing a bed with Marco, and that Marco's a cuddler.

He watches a few more of Eren and Jean's compilation videos as he gathers his stuff. "Stop being a little bitch," Eren says at one point, to which Jean snaps, "I'm not little!" Idiots. Handsome idiots. The comment sections are filled with hearts and fan art. For not the first time, Reiner's struck with relief that he's not still gaming with them professionally. Casuals are more fun, and he loves working at the hardware store; loves the high ceiling and the smell of the wood and Sasha's cute, twangy singing voice. He only wished Bert liked his own job as much. He busses tables, makes milkshakes, hides on the backline while he scrapes stovetops clean. Reiner's going to talk to him about quitting once he's sure he can get the hours to compensate. It's not like they're hurting for money.

They're not paying for tuition or a wedding anymore, after all.

Bert appears in the doorway about five minutes after Reiner is finished packing, dressed in jeans and a clean t-shirt, toweling his hair dry. Fuck, he's spectacular. Reiner perks up, smiling.

"How is it that you're always happy to see me?" asks Bert softly.

"If you had the view I did, you'd be happy too."

"Who were you talking to?"

"Annie. Call her; she's fucking mad."

"Oh," says Bert faintly. He knows what this means, what Reiner must have told her. His eyes search the freshly made bed, the heaps of clothing and his open backpack. He seems to freeze. "What are you doing?"

"I thought I'd stay with Jean for a—"

Bert drops the towel. "No."

"It's just for a few—"

"No. No!"

"Bert, what's wrong?" He can't keep the alarm out of his voice. Bert is nearing outright panic; when Reiner seizes his hands, they're already clammy and tremulous. "This is okay, isn't it? You said you'd like a little space. You thought we should stop sharing a bed for a bit because—"

"I know what I said, but that's—I don't want to be alone at night!"

"You won't be. Marco's there. Isn't that all right, baby?"

Bert squeezes Reiner's hands, flattening his lips into a shaky line. He looks like he wants to say something. Reiner waits for a long moment, but Bert doesn't speak.

"I can stay if you want me to," Reiner offers, though if he's being honest with himself, it would be more than a little painful to spend that strange time with Bert again, those frightened evenings when Bert wakes up gasping and doesn’t want to be touched or sung to or even acknowledged—just wants to lie in bed and tremble all by himself. It destroys Reiner, Bert's being so close to him and so utterly unreachable.

"You go if you need to," says Bert, voice choked. "Don't go for me, but if you're doing this for you, do it."

Reiner's stomach aches with remorse that he has to corroborate that particular phrasing, but it is what it is. He doesn’t think he can sleep in the same bed with Bert without addressing his nightmares, his cold sweats, the way he whimpers and kicks in his sleep. "If you say you want me to stay, I will. Just say the word, baby."

But Bert is silent. He sits down on the edge of the bed, closing the lid of Reiner's laptop on Eren and Jean's laughter. The line of his back is taut, unhappy. When Reiner strokes his shoulders, he feels the muscles there hop with tension.

"I'd like you to see a therapist," says Reiner quietly.

Bert jerks so violently that Reiner's hand twitches away. "Why?"

Seriously? "Because—"

Bert's eyes narrow. He's challenging Reiner; if Reiner can't even say it, he has no right asking this of Bert. Reiner clears his throat.

"Because you were assaulted."

"Why?" Bert says immediately. "Why are you even talking about that? It was months ago."

"Twenty-three days."

"Oh my god, you're _counting_?"

"It still needs to be addressed."

"No it doesn't. It wasn't a pivotal moment in my life, Reiner. I'm not going to celebrate a—a rape-iversary or something every year. Stop making everything about that." A beat of silence. He's smiling now, strange and sad. "I've moved on. Don't you want to, too?"

Reiner shifts and swallows, aware that whatever he says is going to be delicately, unconsciously manipulated. Bert doesn’t want to talk about himself; he never wants to talk about himself. He wants to talk about Reiner. Doesn't _Reiner_ want to come to terms with this? Doesn't _Reiner_ think twenty-three days is long time? Strange part is, Reiner knows how to refocus this type of discourse: he's been doing this since third grade, when he'd asked Bert to be his partner for the James and the Giant Peach project. _I don't know anyone here_ , he'd admitted, and Bert, too timid back then to even speak, had nodded and shyly accepted his hand. 

"It's hard to move on," says Reiner simply, "when I never helped you in the first place." It feels wrong to be talking about himself now, but at least he can do it honestly, acknowledging some of the guilt that has been wracking him for the past month. "I wasn't even there in the exam room with you. I didn't—retaliate. I could still be eating lunch with someone who hurt you, someone I see every day—"

"Yeah, like who? Connie Springer? You think Connie Springer raped me?" Bert persists, still smiling that odd, not-right smile.

"This is not a joking matter, Bert," says Reiner, startled.

"And why do _you_ get to decide that?" Bert says.

Reiner stops dead, chilled. He's never heard that tone from Bert before: it's scathing, nasty and certain and full of a sharp, dark resentment that fills Reiner's stomach with something cold and heavy. If this is Bert on the offense, it's too brutal for Reiner to challenge. He backpedals. Hard. "I—I'm sorry. I guess I shouldn't've—if I overstepped or something, I—"

"No," Bert interrupts, voice soft again, normal. "No, I'm sorry, you're right. It wasn't funny. And no, it wasn't anyone you know. You don't have to worry about that."

 _That's not why I'm worried_! Reiner wants to shout. _That's not the problem here_! Instead, still cowed, he just nods, as if the situation has been properly addressed now. Bert leans in to give him a gentle, comforting kiss on the mouth. Reiner's lips stay slack. How do these things always end in Bert consoling _him_?

The front door rattles open, and Marco's voice precedes him into the apartment: "We're home! We brought food!"

"Hi!" Bert calls back, standing. He doesn't flee; that would be too telling. Instead, he smiles right at Reiner, meeting his eyes, and offers him a hand. "Are you hungry?"

Wordlessly, Reiner lets Bert lead him into the kitchen, like a lost child.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Isn't that enough symbolism for one relationship?" Nope, Bert. Not by a long shot.
> 
> Warning for language, discussion of sexual abuse and mental illness, and references to a possible eating disorder. Do I even need to warn for mood whiplash at this point? I'm sorry, I'll try to be more consistent in the future! Also, to clarify, this chapter and the previous one do not take place during the same night.

"Burrito!" Marco sings—literally sings, presumably because he thinks a double supreme burrito from Taco Titan deserves some sort of anthem. He sweeps into Jean's room, brandishing the plate like a waiter. "Burrito burrito burritooo! Burr—"

"Marco," says Jean, lifting his headphones from one ear, "I'm recording."

Marco freezes. "Oh! Shi—sorry! Sorry. Okay. Bye." He backs out of the doorway, reconsiders, and slips into the room again so he can slide the plate onto the corner of Jean's computer desk. "Here, that's—that's for you."

"Hi Marco," says Eren through the headset.

"Thanks. Eren says hi," says Jean.

"Hi Eren!" Marco shouts, practically blowing out Jean's eardrum, then reddens when he realizes what he just did. He bolts from the room, unthinkingly slamming the door on his way out, and swears colorfully and audibly at his error.

Jean laughs so hard he has to take a sip from the four-day-old energy drink sitting on his computer tower. Onscreen, Eren is laughing too—and holy shit, the chat is blowing up:

 **mycfonets** : _maRCO???_  
**readnocards1** : _OMG. that was THE marco???_  
**coffemissing** : _someone sreencap hishand_  
**Spectrag** : _he liiiiiives_  
**bigRigby** : _i thought marco was the cat_  
**xroSEbuYErx** : _no thats yams_  
**glassine9** : _MARCOOOOOOO_

There hasn't been an outburst like this over their personal lives since Armin appeared behind Eren during a livestream, put his hands on his hips, and stood there with his mouth in a hard line until Eren said, "Oh, fuck, I forgot to do the laundry!" and disconnected without another word. Armin's got his own little online following now as Eren's boo. Marco, however, has become sort of a running joke as Jean's imaginary friend—his riceball stuffed animal, jerk-off hand, and fake boyfriend, alternately. No doubt there's gonna be a MarcosBurrito tumblr by the end of the day. Jean may or may not talk about Marco frequently and lovingly in his drunken Minecraft videos. Thank god Marco has kept his promise not to stalk Jean's Youtube channel.

"See? He's real," says Jean, pointing to his webcam.

"That could've been anyone's hand," says Eren. "That could be someone you hired just so you don't look like a sadsack." He's tilting off camera to read the comments. "Poprocks89 says Marco's got nice fingernails."

"He does, doesn't he?" says Jean, a little more dreamily than he means to, and flushes as Eren bursts out laughing. He hip-checks Eren's avatar. "Eyes up, Jaeger."

They finish their match. It's close, but they lose, and Jean listens to Eren wind up for a bitchfit while he eats his burrito. Outside he can hear low voices: Bert's here, too. The realization is enough to make him frown a little. Since the breakup of the engagement, he and Reiner have been sleeping at separate houses, Bert with Marco, Reiner with Jean. Reiner's a ridiculously good roommate—he does the dishes and the laundry and even vacuumed the Dorito crumbs out of Jean's carpet—but knowing that he's not spending his nights with his boyfriend speaks badly to the state of their relationship. Which speaks badly to the state of any relationship, really. In their dysfunctional little family, Reiner and Bert are second only to Eren and Armin in supercouple status. Even with the extenuating circumstances of their discord, their falling apart means that it could happen to any of them: Sasha and Connie, Hitch and Marlow, Mikasa and What's-His-Face, Annie and What's-Her-Face—even Ymir and Krista, terrifyingly.

The day those ships sink is the day Jean locks up his heart for good and throws away the key. He's been careful for so long. To be hurt now—it would destroy him. He's never going to let anyone mean that much to him until he knows they're gonna want him forever.

"Your expression is ghastly," says Eren. "The burrito that bad?"

"Nah," says Jean, rousing himself. "Just thinking about your face."

"Dickfarm."

"Asslamp."

He logs off, changes into a fresh t-shirt, and wanders into his living room. Marco and Bert have brought over a buffet of fast food: burritos, quesadillas, soft tacos with extra hot sauce. Score. Jean sits down and grabs one of the wrappers at random, registering with affection that Marco has saved him at least one of everything.

"Thanks," he says through a mouthful of churro.

"Thank me by swallowing," says Marco—right before he blushes spectacularly and Reiner bursts out laughing. "I—I mean—swallowing the _churro_ —"

"Marco likes it when Jean swallows his churro," Reiner crows. "Open your throat, Jean!"

Jean chokes and spits half-masticated fried dough across the table. Reiner practically falls over, wheezing. Jean deserves better fucking friends. He coughs until Marco slides him a waxed cup of soda—the blue kind, just like Jean likes—and he gets a few sobering sips down. "Thank you, _Marco_ ," he says pointedly.

"No, thank _you_ ," says Marco reflexively, and a little breathily, which sets Reiner off again.

While Reiner laughs obnoxiously and Marco sputters, Jean notices Bert standing at the edge of the counter, smiling, but making no move toward the food. Jean nudges one of the takeout bags toward him. "Hey. Aren't you eating?"

"No thanks," says Bert. "Had a big breakfast."

"It's eight-fifteen PM. This is dinner."

"Had a big lunch, I mean."

Jean narrows his eyes, wishing Reiner were paying attention so he'd have some backup. It's been weeks since he's seen Bert eat a proper meal. He's always been skinny, but now his hipbones are jutting out too much; his coloring is off and he looks so damn tired all the time. His clothes don't fit him right anymore. Reiner's hoodie practically drowns him.

"Humor me," says Jean, sliding him a burrito.

Bert accepts it reluctantly, unwraps it, and kind of holds it in his hands until Jean pretends to look away. When Jean glances at him sidelong, he's taking a tiny, unhappy bite. That's better than nothing. He makes a mental note to speak to Reiner later, refocusing on Marco, who has finished stammering and is pulling a folded list from his pants pocket. He has been tasked with dismantling the Hoover-Braun wedding. Jean does not envy him.

"Okay," he says, trying to keep his voice bright. "The florist is going to give you back your deposit, but your prick photographer is keeping his."

"Expected that," says Reiner, doing a good job of sounding nonchalant as he pops tater tots. "We actually budgeted for the worst-case scenario, so getting anything back at all is a nice surprise."

"Good thing you hadn't committed to the caterer."

"Less endive salad," says Reiner. "Always a plus."

"I liked the endive salad," says Bert, reaching for Marco's list.

"Well, it did not like me. I shat my brains out."

"Not while we're eating bean burritos, please," Jean groans.

"I'll cancel our reservations on the venue," Bert adds calmly.

The mood shifts. Reiner's smile falters, which makes Marco and Jean glance at him, but Bert continues crossing things off of the list with smooth, brisk strokes. After a tense few seconds of silence, Reiner says, "No."

Bert's pencil squeaks. He glances up at Reiner, and it's only then that Jean realizes how rarely Reiner or Bert outright oppose something the other says. If Reiner said he wanted a clown-themed reception, Bert'd probably say, 'Okay, let's discuss that.' If Bert asked for the moon, Reiner would say, 'Ours or one of Neptune's?' This seems like such a small, illogical thing to argue about. "You'll cancel them yourself, then?" asks Bert, a hard edge of resistance creeping into his voice.

"No, I mean, we could do something else with the space. Like—like—" Reiner pinwheels his hands.

"A hoedown?" says Bert.

"I said the same thing to Annie," says Reiner, laughing.

Bert doesn't smile. He makes another slash with his pencil, resolute. "We're not keeping it. We have no use for it outside a wedding. There were only twenty-something people invited anyway; we shouldn't have even booked it in the first place."

Reiner pauses. "You loved it. I wanted you to have it."

"Well, I didn't, and I told you that."

"But you deserve—"

"I don't deserve shit, Reiner. Life doesn't work that way. People don't get what they deserve, good _or_ bad."

Long, heavy pause. Bertolt doesn't swear often, and even more rarely in anger. The scathing remark has a silencing effect on the whole kitchen. Jean even stops chewing, eyes fixed on Reiner—who blinks twice, blearily, then grins, claps his hands, and clambers unhurriedly to his feet.

"I disagree," he says, with forced cheer. "We deserve ice cream! I'm gonna go grab some for us. What do you want, Jean? Cherry chocolate chip?"

"Yeah, thanks?" says Jean, mouth full, thrown by the subject change but reflexively unable to refuse an offer of ice cream. "Um, my wallet's in my—"

"I got it," chirps Reiner.

"I'll go with you," says Marco, much quicker on the uptake. His chair screeches as he stands, groping wildly for his jacket, because Reiner is already halfway out the front door and blowing Bert a determined kiss.

"Bye, babe!"

"Reiner, wait, your shoes," Marco pleads, then, "Ah, bugger. We'll be back" as he jams his feet into his Keds, kicks Reiner's sneakers into the hall, and rushes to close the door before Reiner starts crying or swearing or whatever else he's leaving to do. Jean only hears a confused burble of conversation before their voices fade off down the hall. He winces.

Bert just sits there, back straight, but at least he's no longer pretending to care about the goddamn list.

"Well, thanks a bunch," says Jean. "That was so abrupt that I almost didn't have time to be uncomfortable."

"Oh, good," says Bert. "Because I—"

"I said 'almost,' Bert."

Bert withers. "Sorry," he says.

Jean sighs, props his chin in one hand, and shakes his head a little. "It's whatever. You gonna tell me what that was all about?" 

Bert is quiet for a moment. "He's just—too good to me sometimes. I can't stand it today; I don't know why."

He's trusting Jean with this because he knows he's not gonna say something like _you deserve the world, Bert_. Jean shrugs one shoulder. "That's what your S.O. is supposed to do for you. Look at Jaeger and Armin. Arms doesn't even force him to sleep on the floor or piss in the yard or wear a paper bag over his head or anything."

For the first time that evening, Bert laughs, but he stops abruptly and groans. He stands up and leans over the counter, fiddling with some spilled salt on the stovetop.

Long silence.

Jean's not awkward around Bert, but this isn't exactly a comfortable situation. He settles on, "Ugh."

"Ugh," agrees Bert. Then, all in one burst: "I know he wants something to cling onto, but why does it have to be the venue? It's so expensive! He's already wearing our engagement rings around his neck; isn't that enough symbolism for one relationship?"

"It's only been a few days," Jean points out. "The dust hasn't even settled."

"There shouldn't have been any dust in the first place!"

"Uh. 'Enough symbolism,' you were saying...?"

Bert sighs again and scrubs his eyes with his fists, like a child. "I'm just so tired of this. Tired of the way he's been treating me."

"How has he been treating you?"

"Like—like it's his fault I screwed up."

Jean blinks. "When did you screw up?"

"When I got hurt," says Bert.

That makes Jean so mad that he can't even speak—which is good, because the angry words he has wouldn't benefit Bert, who is staring at the far wall now, eyes hazy with tears. Jean swallows hard, stands up, and folds a clumsy arm around Bert. It's only manageable because he's hunched over. "Now do I need to address the idiocy of that comment, or have you got it?" he asks.

"I've got it," says Bert, voice thick.

"Okay." Jean tightens his hold a little, letting his cheek rest against Bert's tight bicep. Has he lost a little muscle mass? Is Jean imagining shit? Bert doesn’t work out as much as Reiner does—no one does, good goddamn—but he's usually strong and substantial in a way that he doesn’t feel now. Jean squeezes his arm experimentally. Bert nearly jumps out of his skin.

"What are you doing?"

"Feeling," says Jean. He scratches his head. "Bert—"

"Oh, it's eight-thirty!" says Bert, pretending to notice the digital clockface on the oven. "The food show is on!"

"Bert."

"Watch the food show with me," says Bert determinedly.

Jean relents. Maybe that's enough pushing for one day. He's gonna have to talk to Marco and Reiner to figure out his next move anyway.

Cable's a little outdated to him, but he got it for Reiner and Bert, so he might as well put it to good use. He and Bert watch a few hours of Half Pint, which is a show about using the leftover food from restaurants to create dishes for the homeless. Pretty cool. Bert falls asleep around the fifth episode, but Jean surprises himself by not changing the channel. It's kinda fascinating thinking about how much food goes to waste every day—medium steaks that weren't rare enough, slightly overcooked corn, desserts with sprinkles of allergens like peanuts or lactose.

He doesn't even realize how late it is until he hears the spare key scrape its way into the lock, jarring him. He extricates his arm from beneath Bert's head and joins Marco in the entryway. Reiner's not with him. Jean helps Marco out of his coat because he looks tired; his eyelids are drooping and his limbs seem to be hanging a little too heavy.

"Thanks, Jean," says Marco.

"No problem, Marco," says Jean. They've been accused of saying each other's names too often, but it's not something that either of them have ever been moved to correct. Marco slumps into one of the kitchen chairs, and Jean rushes to get him a root beer, which is the Marco-equivalent of a stiff drink. "You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," sighs Marco. He's pale. Then: "No. Reiner had an episode."

Jean's stomach drops. "Like—?"

"Like a full-on, 'where am I, oh, Marco, when did you get back to America' thing. He asked if he and Bert were still married. He was all over the place. I haven't seen him this erratic since Annie's accident."

"Fuck, that's bad," says Jean.

"No kidding."

"Do you think we should call Doctor Zoe?"

"Not just yet. He grounded himself pretty fast after I reminded him that they were no longer engaged." Marco's voice cracks. "I had to explain it all again. What happened to Bert. Reiner cried. He's out grabbing coffee with Eren now; I told him to get it together before he says goodnight. I think Bert can expect a dozen roses or some sort of gesture before bed tonight." Marco takes a deep breath, sighs, and forces a smile back onto his face. Jean's told him over and over that he doesn't need to do that for him, but Marco persists. "Did Bertie say anything?"

"About what?"

Marco contemplates him for a long, quiet moment. "Nothing, I guess."

They sit there for a moment, staring ruefully at Bert, still fast asleep on the couch with the food show casting soft light over him. He still has a little baby fat in his cheeks, Jean realizes suddenly. The thought makes him sad.

"When something bad happens," says Marco suddenly, "how long does it take for things to be normal again? When does the 'moving on' start? After Eren's mom died, it took him a decade to stop being angry, but we were making Sleeping Beauty jokes two hours after Annie was discharged from the hospital. I just—I don’t know how this works. I don't know how to fix it, or how to make Bert face this. I love that sweaty BFG. I can't keep watching him starve himself into nothingness."

"You noticed, then?" says Jean.

Marco looks at him patiently. "C'mon. Jean, _you_ noticed."

"Yeah." Jean pauses. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Marco laughs, covering his mouth to keep quiet. "You're so sweet," he says abruptly, tenderly.

Silence. Lot of that tonight. Jean, weirdly, doesn't feel himself flushing. Instead, something warm and soft blooms in his stomach, and he bites his lip to keep from smiling. He glances up at Marco from beneath his eyelashes. Marco is staring at him, solemn.

Marco. Marco Bodt. The mysterious burrito-giving hand in Jean's latest stream; the "love interest" his viewers think is fake, because they've never seen him before. It never bothers Jean because he knows, always knows, how real Marco is to him. How precious. Sitting here in his dimly-lit kitchen, Marco's face looks pale and gentle and perfect, and his fingers are achingly close to Jean's on the table. Jean eases his hand forward just a little bit. And Marco—

Marco frowns.

"Did you hear that?" he asks.

"Hear what?" says Jean, glancing around his apartment—then he hears it too. A tiny mewling coming from his living room, barely audible over the sound of Chef Whoever cobbling together a turkey dinner from some five-star restaurant's leftovers. 

"Aah!" Bert cries suddenly, at full volume. "Please—please leave—"

Marco and Jean leap to their feet, badly startled. Jean reaches Bert while Marco is still frozen, so he swipes his hands down Bert's sweaty face, struggling to wake him without scaring him. Bert awakens with a jolt. He swings his fist weakly, no stronger than a baby's punch, and Jean tilts his chin to allow the blow to sweep by his cheek. "Bert," says Jean, shaking him lightly. "Bert, chill. You were dreaming."

Bert takes a long moment to calm, gulping in deep, shuddering breaths. Marco's there by now, and he folds Bert against him with maternal ease, rocking him gently. "Shh, it's okay. It's over now. You're okay."

"M-Marco...?"

"Yeah. Jean and I are here."

Bert surprises Jean by reaching out blindly for his hand. Jean obliges, twining Bert's short fingers in his own long ones, and sits down on his other side. "You wanna talk about it?"

His chest heaves as he takes deep, shaky breaths. A few seconds after Jean gives up on his saying anything, he swipes a hand across his damp eyes and coughs a little to clear his throat. "I dreamt I was five again," Bert mumbles, voice froggy from sleep. "I was five and my social worker was there, and the police were taking all my stuffed animals. It's stupid."

"It's not," says Jean. Thanks to Jaeger, everyone knows that Jean still sleeps with the stuffed riceball pillow his dad gave him when he was seven.

"I—" begins Bert.

Outside the apartment, the elevator chimes.

Bert closes his mouth again.

As always, Reiner's loud voice precedes him down the hall. He's talking to someone, and Jean assumes it's over the phone until he hears Eren's stupid voice say, "Yeah, well, we miss you on our team. Jean is Worst Tank NA."

"Fuck you, Jaeger!" Jean shouts through the door.

Distant: "Fuck you more!"

"Shh," Marco says frantically. "People are sleeping!" He gets up to answer the door, stalling a little so Bert has time to wipe his face one last time and disengage from Jean. Reiner and Eren are standing in the corridor together. Reiner's got a little plastic bag around his elbow—some gift for Bert, no doubt, and Jean'd be lying if he said he weren't curious about what these two do after they quarrel—and Eren is in his sweatpants and Pac-Man shirt, looking ridiculously handsome despite the late hour. They're both holding ice creams.

"Cherry for Jean," says Reiner, passing off a cone. "Chocolate for Marco. Peanut butter fudge for B—oh god, Bert, baby, what's wrong?"

Jean turns to look at Bert, who looks perfectly normal to him, but apparently Reiner sees something that he doesn't. It moves Jean in a sad, respectful way.

"Just a bad dream," says Bert, smiling. He points to the plastic bag. "What's that?"

"Oh, it's—here." Reiner thrusts the whole thing at him, staring at his feet as Bert peeks into the bag. It's a small white teddy bear holding a heart. Bert, astonished, holds it up under its arms as if it were a baby.

"What's this for?"

"Because I love you," says Reiner gruffly. "I saw it and I thought you might like it. You know, so you don't have to sleep alo—fuck it, I'm an idiot. Give it back; I'll return it to the—"

"Mine," says Bert, holding the bear out of Reiner's reach. He's avoiding eye contact with Jean and Marco, aware that a shared look between them would give away the coincidental significance of the stuffed animal and his dream. "Thank you, Reiner. I love him."

"It's a him?" asks Reiner, starting to smile.

"I think I'll name him—Bearwick."

It must be an inside joke, because they laugh together, long and fond and bittersweet. They kiss. It's the softest, most scared kiss Jean has ever seen. There's an apology in it from Bert's side, and acceptance from Reiner's.

"Get a room," says Eren, like the jackass he is.

Laughing, Reiner and Bert separate. Reiner holds the ice cream cone to Bert's mouth, and Bert gives it a shy lick. Jean smiles. Back to normal, then, or whatever precarious thing that counts for normal these days.

"Well, we'd better scoot," says Marco, giving his car keys a twirl. "Lunch on Tuesday with Sasha and Connie, yeah?"

"Yeah," says Reiner. He raises his hand to give Marco a sort of bro handshake, which Marco meets with an awkward fist bump that he blows up.

"Pwooh," says Marco, wriggling his fingers.

"Oh my god," says Eren, laughing.

"What?" demands Marco. "I did that one right! That was a pwooh!"

Reiner claps him on the back. "No, Marco. It—no. Go home."

Crestfallen, Marco turns to leave, a smiling Bert trailing after him. Eren leans past them to give Jean a small wave. "Peace," he says.

"Yup," says Jean, waving back as he goes to sit down on the sofa again.

Marco pauses, smiles at Jean, and shuts the door. Their voices, softer now without Reiner's booming laugh, fade quickly down the hallway, and they hear the faint _ding_ of the elevator again as they head toward the guest parking lot. Jean realizes he's grinning at Marco's subtle goodbye and smoothes out his expression just before Reiner turns to him, smiling a fond, different smile.

"I'm having dinner with Eren and Armin tomorrow night," he says.

"Oh yeah?" says Jean. Those two might be able to provide some insight into helping Bert that the rest of them can't. "Be sure to take some antacids before you go. Jaeger's cooking is deadly."

"I remember," says Reiner, grimacing. "That barbecue last year—"

"Pure charcoal."

"Charcoal and salt."

"With a side of charcoal and salt."

Long pause. Jean considers asking Reiner about his episode, but changes his mind when he sees that Reiner's eyes are as worn-down and sleepy as Bert's were. He gestures toward the TV, still blaring on behind him. "Food show?"

"Food show!" Reiner declares, nearly losing his ice cream cone as he vaults over the back of the couch—goddamn it, does he have to do that every time?—and lands beside Jean, bouncing him up about five inches into the air.

"Fuck, Reiner!"

"Sorry," says Reiner, not sounding sorry at all. He settles in and kicks his feet up on the coffee table, draping one companionable arm around Jean's shoulders. "So, Eren showed me an interesting part of your stream tonight. Marco cameo, eh? Did you see all the comments? To quote sniperhotdog4, you looked even more excited than when they released that new patch that reduced the cooldown on your ult by forty seconds."

"Yeah, ha, I love burritos," says Jean.

"Burritos," repeats Reiner. He rolls his eyes. " _Burritos_."

They watch Half Pint for a few minutes without speaking. The host rescues some day-old Danish and serves it with an incorrect Starbucks order. There's something really miraculous about this sappy show; Jean can see why Bert and Reiner are addicted to it. It's like Animal Rescue, but for pastries. 

"You gotta tell him someday," says Reiner suddenly. "You got time, yeah, but why spend so much of your life thinking about being happy when you could actually _be_ happy?"

Jean doesn't answer, and Reiner doesn’t pursue it. They finish their ice cream without speaking, and sit together until they fall asleep.

Jean dreams about stuffed animals, and Marco, and desserts. He dreams they're digging ice cream out of an old freezer at the back of some Italian restaurant, and all of Bert's plushies are scrambling for the cones, giggling and shoving like children. _One at a time_ , says Marco, laughing. He smiles at Jean, and Jean realizes that they're holding hands, and suddenly the stuffed animals are tiny freckled children with hazy brown eyes. _Burrito burrito burrito!_ Marco sings then, scooping one of the kids into his arms. Jean kisses the child on the cheek. _Happy_ , he says, and when he finally wakes up, dawn trickling through the curtains, he's still smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and for providing such INCREDIBLE feedback, and for sticking with me despite these ridiculously slow updates. Question: the next chapter, I feel, is a violation of perspective, in that it focuses on a character who has not yet been introduced (Erwin). Should I post it here, or as its own separate work? Thank you very much for your opinions and support!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe everyone at least one relatively fast update. Please enjoy this quick, POV-violating, intermission-like chapter before things get angsty again in the next bit. Warnings, as usual, for language and references to past sexual assaults.
> 
> Thank you so much for your support and advice; I promise I will be getting back to your generous reviews tomorrow! Thanks also to tiggeryumyum, who has been an invaluable source of assistance for me in basically everything that I do in life. <3

Armin's lime green Volkswagen Beetle is parked in the driveway, so Erwin Smith pulls up against the curb, fishes his cell phone out of the pocket of his discarded suit jacket, and dials while he's still sitting in his white Accord. "Hi," he says, when Armin picks up. "I'm home. Coming in now."

"Okay. Eren made dinner," says Armin.

Erwin smiles a little, fumbling for his keys as he crosses the slate stepping stone path they installed across the lawn last summer. "Burnt hamburgers or burnt pancakes?"

"Be nice," Armin scolds. Then: "Burnt hamburgers."

"Hey," Eren protests from somewhere in the background.

"Reiner Braun is over, too. He's the tall blond guy with the—"

"I remember him."

Erwin hangs up, unlocks the front door, and opens it to find Armin in a headlock in the kitchen threshold. His heart leaps wildly in his chest before he takes a breath, realizes everything is all right: Armin is squirming, snort-laughing unselfconsciously, and Reiner is ruffling his hair (finally chin-length again, Erwin notes with fondness) on only the right side of his part so he doesn't irrevocably mess it up. "What?" Reiner teases. "The tall blond guy with the what?"

"The enormous fucking penis, obviously," Eren says—and belatedly notices Erwin standing there in the entryway. He jumps about a mile into the air and does some bizarre fist-over-his-heart salute. "Mr. Smith! Sir!"

"At ease," says Erwin, smiling, though the closest he's ever come to military service is his management position at the distribution center. He removes his shoes and wriggles his tie loose. It feels like a real home in here, all warm cooking and laughter and the new smell of guests. "I'm curious, too. The blond with the...?"

"I was going to say 'muscles," Armin says.

"Nice," says Reiner. "I accept your answer." He releases Armin, his touch affectionate and gentle, and extends a hand to Erwin. "Hi, Mr. Smith."

"Good to see you again, Mr. Braun."

Erwin retreats to his bedroom to freshen up. He likes Reiner, who doesn't try to win him over, and who has a soft-eyed fiancé who busses tables at the diner he and Nile frequent. All of Armin's friends are good kids. He's glad he can trust them. His nephew is nowhere as fragile as he used to be, but Erwin still throbs with an over-protectiveness that's he's only just learning to control. Sometimes it's hard not to sweep him into his arms and hiss at the people who pass him. Other times, like today, he swells with pride at Armin's autonomy. 

By the time Erwin returns to the kitchen, Eren has made up a plate for him and set it at his usual place at the table, clearly intending for Erwin to join them. Erwin wouldn't have minded taking his meal in his office, but he's touched by this inclusion. He sits down and prods his burnt burger. "Mm."

"Mm indeed," Eren mutters, embarrassed. "Do you want ketchup or something to cover up the charcoal-taste?"

"I take my carcinogens straight."

"So badass," says Eren without sarcasm.

Armin says a short, nondenominational blessing that terminates in an unironic _itadakimasu_ , just like Mikasa taught him. Eren echoes, and Reiner says something that sounds like eat-a-taco-mouse; it's a valiant effort. _Amen_ , thinks Erwin silently. Sometimes he's not sure what he believes in, but something gifted him Armin, Marie, and the soft, quiet beauty that has slowly become his life. He is loved; he is grateful.

If he feels there's anything missing, it's no one's fault but his own.

They struggle through their burgers for a few agonizing minutes before Eren says, "Fuck it" and goes to the refrigerator for a box of leftover pizza. He plops it down in the center of the table, and there's a sort of synchronized dive for the anchovy-free slices, which Erwin loses. He sighs and sets to work peeling the fish from the cold cheese. Apparently Eren's deference to him ends at consuming oily fish.

Reiner, who got the other anchovy pieces, glances at Erwin with sympathy and grimly toasts him with his own slice. "I'd rather eat a taco mouse," he says.

"Me too." Erwin takes a bite. Awful, but he chews without further complaint because Armin is eating cheerfully and naturally, caught in a moment of warm, safe contentment. He's had a good day, then. A strong day, by a definition he himself would actually agree with. The strongest people, Erwin has come to realize, don't know they are strong.

"Great cooking, sweetheart," says Armin, tweaking Eren's ear.

"Thanks," says Eren. "Slaved all day over it. Laid in wait for the wild pepperoni to reach the watering hole."

"It's illegal to hunt pepperoni in early May," says Reiner.

"So don't tell anyone, Braun." Eren smiles, mouth full and everything. "God, it's been ages since you were over here. Last time was, what? Halloween of '08?"

"Helping Armin move out, I think."

Eren and Armin have been living in their own apartment for a few years now. Given their gregariousness, they are oddly private in the conduction of their home life. Erwin has only been there twice, both times to install better locks on the doors and windows. They have a cat, a small aloe plant, and a soundproofed room for Eren's recording sessions. He is very popular online, as Erwin understands. He plays with Jean Kirschtein and— "Do you still play that game, Reiner?" asks Erwin.

"Nah," says Reiner. "Got too intense for me. I like tourney prize money as much as the next fella, but Eren and Jean are exhausting teammates."

"What are you doing now?"

"Still working at the hardware store. Keeping busy, making money."

"And how is your fiancé?"

The lapse in conversation is just a millisecond too long. Erwin notices suddenly that Reiner is wearing two matching engagement rings on the chain around his neck, bookending his usual medical ID tag: _Hello, my name is Reiner! I have memory impairment._ When is the last time Erwin visited the diner? Could Reiner's fiancé have died suddenly? Erwin speaks smoothly into the silence, before anyone else has to.

"I've said something wrong. I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's cool!" says Reiner, waving his hands a little too emphatically. "That's why I'm here, actually, visiting with Arm and Eren. Thought they might have some insight for me. See, my fiancé—I mean, my boyfriend—" Reiner fumbles, and it's clear from Eren and Armin's faces that this is the first they're hearing about it, "—is going through some rough things right now. I'd like to learn how to help him."

"You've officially canceled the wedding?" asks Armin, stunned.

"Yeah. He says we should wait."

"Oh, man," says Eren, hands tightening on the tabletop. "When did it get so bad?"

"Starting to realize that it's always been this bad. It's just getting more and more apparent." Reiner pauses, glancing at Erwin. It's probably no easier to say, but he must have gotten a lot of practice by now: "Um, he experienced a sexual assault about three weeks ago."

"I'm sorry," says Erwin after a moment. The fury that builds in him is almost instantaneous: Armin's history, of course, and the fact that Erwin has met the young man personally. Reiner's boyfriend—Fubar? Hoover?—is a kind, quiet boy, clumsy and smiling and responsible for the Daily Pun marquee at the diner. The latest one was, _What do you call a fish with a missing eye? A fsh_! Erwin rubs at his chin, coarse with stubble, just to have something to do with his hand beside reaching for Armin's. He ends up taking Reiner's instead. It's awkward having to cross his arm across the table, and he's not sure Reiner will accept the touch, but he does, tightly and without hesitation.

Reiner and his partner are foster children, Erwin remembers. Had been through quite a few group homes and foster families by the time they met Armin at a pep rally during Armin's freshman year of high school. Erwin is still piqued by the circumstances of their first acquaintanceship—they'd been in some sort of brawl together; Eren, Mikasa, Reiner, and a pokerfaced young woman named Annie had been suspended from school for their involvement—but Armin was returned to Erwin without a scratch, for which Erwin is eternally grateful. And that was _before_ Armin's assault. When he finally returned to school, Reiner and Hoover shadowed him like guard dogs, dedicated to his safety. 

Erwin wishes he could've repaid the favor for Hoover. He is endlessly disgusted by what these children have gone through. Trost's crime rate is abnormally high, and it feels like too many of them are winding up on the receiving end of its violence. If he could afford to relocate them all to Mitras, he would.

He has been encouraging Armin and Eren to move there for years now, but they refuse to leave their friends behind. United they stand. He admires their loyalty to each other even as it makes him ache with worry.

"I should excuse myself," says Erwin.

"No, please," says Reiner, still gripping Erwin's hand. "I'm sorry for the unpleasantries, but I could really use any advice you have for me. Like what I can do for Bertolt, how I can help. How I can make him okay again."

"You can't," says Eren, his voice low and sad. "It's impossible."

"Lie," says Armin instantly. "You saved me, Eren. You saved me a thousand times over."

"But I never fixed _that_. I just couldn't."

Armin is quiet for a moment, holding Eren's elbow. "You can make everything else okay again," he corrects himself at last, speaking to Reiner. "That's damn near as good."

"Armin," says Reiner steadily, "I know that what happened to you and what happened to him aren't the same. I want you to know that I understand that."

"They're not as different as you think, either," says Armin. His voice is affected but unwavering. "One of my doctors said over and over that at least the—the sexual assault hadn't damaged me as badly as the other physical abuse had. That it was almost...subsidiary. But she was wrong. I'd rather have broken a hundred more bones than have had that part of me compromised the way it was."

Eren stands so fast he rattles the dishware. "Who the fuck said that to you? Which doctor?"

"It's fine, Eren. It was a long time ago."

"Fuck that shit!" Eren snarls, smacking the table with both fists. "It's never too late for a glitterbomb!"

Armin laughs clear and controlled, without hysteria, and Erwin can't help the snort that escapes him. It breaks the tension: Reiner laughs too, and even Eren smiles grudgingly when Armin stands up to kiss him on the cheek. "My knight in glittering armor," says Armin. He eases Eren back into his chair and keeps one hand on his shoulder, stroking gently until the rigid muscles of Eren's arms begin to relax.

Erwin glances sidelong to watch Reiner process this, his face soft and thoughtful. _You see it, Braun. It wasn't your fault. Your job now is to teach him how to smile again._

"In summary, Reiner, small particles of reflective, hexagonal plastic aren't the solution," says Armin.

"Wouldn't know where to send them even if I wanted to," says Reiner wistfully.

"He hasn't hinted at who—?"

"All I know is that it's a classmate."

"He told me most of his professors allowed him to take his finals online," says Armin. "He failed one, I guess, but he said he'd done well enough on the rest of his coursework to scrape by with a C."

"That must've hurt his GPA," says Reiner, sighing.

"It did. Sometimes I think he started working at the diner again just to punish himself."

"How's he been there? Do you have any idea?"

"No, he and Krista are on different shifts now," says Armin.

"He seemed fine the last time I saw him," Erwin offers, glad he has something to contribute. "Nile and I were there a few weeks ago."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"He waved." It occurs to Erwin belatedly that he has never even heard Bertolt Hoover's voice. If the young man is so indecipherable to his own friends, he is utterly unknowable to Erwin. How does one live like that? Erwin thrives on leadership and acknowledgement. The idea of being wordless is haunting, unthinkable. "Have you suggested he see a psychiatrist?"

Reiner groans. "Let me tell you how well _that_ conversation went. Armin, maybe if you were to float the idea—"

"The only reason he's still speaking to me is because I'm keeping up the charade that I don't know anything," says Armin reluctantly. "I like being his hour of normalcy at the coffee shop. I don't think I should compromise that right now."

"Does he eat?" asks Reiner.

Armin blinks. "What?"

"When you two have lunch together, does he eat?"

"Yes, of course he does." Armin pauses, concern clouding his expression. "Has he stopped eating at home?"

"Yeah," says Reiner grimly. "Almost entirely."

"Oh, that is not good. That is not fucking good," says Eren. He taps his fingers, thinking. "Okay. He's more polite than he is stubborn, don't you think? Stubbornly polite? So here's the plan: we invite him over for a quiet night in, you and me and him and Arm, and I cook dinner, and—"

"I don't think your cooking is any sort of serious inducement," Erwin points out.

The boys stare at him for a long moment before bursting out into laughter. Erwin's actually a little confused before he realizes the implications of his words, and then he laughs, too. Eren is trying and failing to look wounded, and Reiner and Armin have amusingly complementary laughs; boisterous and tiny, respectively. "Rude, Mr. Smith," whines Eren.

Smiling, Erwin takes the opportunity to excuse himself. He doesn't feel as if he has anything else to add to the conversation, and is pleased to leave them on a less morose note while they plan the dinner get-together.

It's getting late. The glow in his office is red and faint, and he pulls the shades halfway, opting for his desk lamp instead of the ceiling lights because he is feeling soft, strange. He sits down at his desk without opening his laptop. Thinks about Hoover, and Armin, and the unworn engagement rings occupying Reiner Braun's medical ID necklace.

Armin is growing into his own as a leader. He can talk about the assault now with grace and insight; his friends are turning to him for advice—a far cry from the boy who refused to speak to his psychiatrist, who had convinced himself so thoroughly that nothing he could say was worth anyone's attention. Certainly, he still has his hang-ups. He still needs Erwin to call before he opens the front door, still quadruple-checks his locks, reacts terribly at the sight of white carpeting. But these are coping mechanisms. They are getting him through each day, to the benefit of both himself and the friends who need him. Armin is loved; Armin is safe. Armin Arlert is strong and luminous and alive, and Erwin has never been prouder of him.

Struck by sudden inspiration, Erwin retrieves his cell phone, pages through his contacts list, and dials. As he waits for the connection, the last traces of dusk give way to evening. The night is warm and dark and still.

Hanji answers after three rings, their voice breathless and excited.

"Erwin Smith! How the hell are you?"

"Hanji, hello," says Erwin, smiling. "I have a new mission for you."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, as always, for the terrible wait and the late review replies! This chapter is rough and contains language and references to past sexual assault.

**1:13pm You** : Where are you?  
**1:13pm Annie** : Baggage claim, eta fifteen minutes  
**1:13pm You** : 8D 8D 8D  
**1:13pm Annie** : Don't do that.

"—said, 'That's a fuck-ugly car,' and he was like, 'It's a BMW!' and I was all, 'Yeah, does that stand for bigass mobile weenis?' And he like—"

"'Bigass' is two words," Connie interrupts wisely.

Sasha gives his head an affectionate stroke. "Or maybe hyphenated, yeah, but don't worry, babe. I said it like one word."

"Good job."

"I know it." Sasha pauses to take a slurp of milkshake. "Hey, Reiner, you listening to this?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry," says Reiner, unable to smooth out the goofy smile on his face. He pockets his phone and refocuses on his burger, squishing it down a little so he can actually fit it between his teeth: lunch with Sasha and Connie means that there's no Talking-With-Your-Mouth-Full shaming, and he intends to take full advantage of that freedom. "I'm trying to time it so Annie gets here around the same time as Bert," he says around a bite of Colossal Burger. "Make sure he sits where he can see her walk in, okay?"

"He still doesn't know she's visiting?" asks Marco, who is, adorably, still eating his burger in his neat little European knife-and-fork way.

"Nope, and whose fault is that? I told him to call her ages ago. She says they've been texting, but that gives him time to dodge all of her questions. You know how he is."

"I've actually almost forgotten," says Sasha. "Haven't really spoken to the little bugger in ages."

"Yeah, well, that makes two of us," says Reiner, sighing. His cheer falters, but only for a moment. He knows he's got bits of lettuce and hamburger stuck in his teeth when he grins around the table, making Marco wince. "Today's gonna be great, kids. The whole gang's back in town."

God, it's been so long since all of them were home at the same time. Marco went first, of course, then Armin took off for a couple semesters in Mitras, and Annie only waited a few weeks before she moved to Arizona to study architecture. Reiner still thinks it was partly a defensive move: leave before anyone else could leave her. Armin's departure had hit her pretty hard. Reiner's looking forward to watching those two catch up; watching everyone laugh and drink and tease the way they only can when they're whole. They're all meeting up Thursday for brunch. Anyone who thought this ragtag bunch of misfits wouldn't survive high school can eat crow and fuck off.

Sometimes he forgets how tangled up he and his friends are in each other, how their history ties them irreversibly together and sends little shockwaves through them all with every joy or trauma. He was wrong not to talk to Annie immediately. Her visit is long overdue.

Bert, as planned, arrives earlier than her, his rumpled sleeping shirt visible beneath the top hem of a hoodie that looks too warm for the season. Reiner's brow creases with worry. When Marco left him that morning to have a quick meeting with their ex-officiant, Bert was reportedly still curled up in bed under a huge pile of blankets—his latest sleeping habit, taking the place of his insomnia or his constant, restless movement. Bert has never slept normally. He looks like he's steeling himself as he makes his way to their corner booth, but he smiles when he gets there, accepting hugs from Sasha and Connie before he takes his seat next to Reiner. Reiner gives his knee a gentle pat under the table.

"How are you, baby?" he asks, running warm with helpless affection.

"Good," says Bert. "Sleepy." He ducks away when Reiner moves in to kiss him. "I haven't brushed my teeth."

"So? I had onion rings," says Reiner.

"What?"

"Onion breath trumps morning breath. Right, Con? Sasha?"

"Hard rule," says Sasha.

"Everyone knows that," agrees Connie.

"You guys are ridiculous," says Bert, laughing a bit, and this time he allows Reiner to give him a quick kiss on the mouth without pulling back.

They'd strategically ordered as soon as they'd arrived so that food would be waiting for Bertolt when he got there, and Reiner had let Sasha choose the sides, which meant that his plate was heaped with about four different types of potatoes. Carbs to build Bert back up a little. Everyone pretends not to be watching as he picks at the sweet potato fries, even going so far as to chew a few and swallow them down with a sip of Reiner's soda. Satisfied, Reiner returns to his own food, subtly checking his phone again. T minus ten minutes. He angles his chair a little so he can see the front door of the café. 

"So," says Connie, after he's finished with his burger. "Saw a certain someone's big burrito-y hand in one of Jean's videos the other night."

Marco drops his silverware and groans. "Did everyone and their mum see that?"

"No, just like three million of Jean and Eren's loyal viewers."

"Three _million_?" Marco practically shouts, making the people at the neighboring table jump.

"Well, no, that's the number of views," says Sasha comfortingly. "So, theoretically, it could've just been a handful of weirdos who watched it, like, a hundred thousand times each."

"Eren and Jean have twenty-something million subscribers collectively," Reiner points out.

"Yes, thank you, I was trying not to freak Marco out," says Sasha.

"By talking about weirdos watching their videos a hundred thousand times." 

"Twenty million!" Marco marvels. "Twenty _million_!"

"Yeah, your boy's popular," says Connie, grinning and nudging him. "Kinda makes you want to make a move, doesn't it?"

Marco is quiet for a long moment. Then, very quietly, he says, "Yeah. It really does."

This time they all drop their forks in unison. Reiner feels his jaw go slack. Marco and Jean never acknowledge their feelings for each other. It's like an unspoken rule that they made the first time they got married in kindergarten, toilet paper heaped on their heads for wedding veils. Reiner doesn't know if it's out of fear or what, but he's getting pretty goddamn tired of these two and their twenty-year courtship dance. "Really?" he says, not daring to believe it. "You're—going to tell Jean how you feel about him?"

Marco sits up straight. He looks incredibly handsome then, face solemn, eyes ablaze with determination. He removes a handmade wooden box from his coat pocket and sets it down in the center of the table.

"I bought a ring," he announces.

Sasha screams. No, wait—that had to have been Connie, because Sasha has bypassed shrieking and has dissolved straight into excited tears. Reiner only glances at Bert briefly to see if the topic is still too raw for him—and grins luminously. Bert has his hand clasped to his mouth to hide a wide, delighted smile. He looks beautiful too, caught off-guard with the deliriously good news. He's the first to grab Marco's hand and give it one firm shake, then Sasha, then Connie is pumping Marco's whole arm up and down with one hand and clapping him on the back with the other.

"Stop," Marco protests, blushing furiously, even though he's smiling, too. "He hasn't said yes. I haven't even asked him."

"He'll say yes," Reiner promises. "I mean, or he'll say no, because he's scared shitless, just like you are. But he'll _mean_ yes, and I have no doubt that you'll be able to show him that."

"I want to spend forever with him," says Marco in a small voice.

Connie and Reiner sigh gustily in unison. "I'd say 'character development,' but being in love with Jean was more like one of your starting stats," says Reiner.

Marco blinks. "What does that mean?"

"Never mind, Marco. Congratulations, buddy."

"Thank you," says Marco. He looks like he's about to add something, then stops and smiles instead. His eyes are bright. Reiner clasps his shoulder, grinning.

"Let's see the rock," says Sasha, pouncing on the box.

She opens it in the center of the table. Reiner whistles. It's a yellow gold band with an infinity symbol on it, the loops cradling a diamond and a deep, autumnal orange stone. Citrine? Quartz? Reiner knows without asking that the bright jewel symbolizes Jean: fiery, stunning, rich with life. It's going to look great on his finger. "Did you get this around the time I was spamming you with ideas for Bert's ring?" he asks. "Has this been in the works that long?"

"Yeah," says Marco shyly. "I think moving back was all about Jean, though I didn't know it at the time."

"Everyone else did," whispers Connie.

"It's just so hard," says Marco. "I know that—that _loving_ someone should be the easiest thing in the world, but—"

"It's complicated," Reiner finishes. He reaches under the table to touch Bert's thigh, and Bert surprises him by placing his hand atop his. They twine fingers. Bert smiles at him, soft and sweet, and for the first time in ages, it doesn't seem like it's hurting him.

"You know how you're proposing yet?" asks Connie.

Marco smacks the table with helpless excitement. "Oh my gosh! I don't know, I don't know. I've so many ideas. His favorite flowers are yellow roses, and his favorite food is potato tots—"

"Tater tots—"

"—so I was thinking—I could put the potato tot in the rose, and the ring in the potato tot—"

"We'll work on it," says Sasha warmly, patting his hand.

As they exchange ideas, Reiner thinks about his disastrous proposal to Bert. He'd planned for it at a nice restaurant, but Bert had been tired that day, and it'd taken a lot of cajoling to get him out of his pajamas and into his favorite sweater. Bert was uncharacteristically sullen by the time they arrived, and he hadn't wanted the ice cream dessert he usually ordered, where the accomplice chef had stashed the ring. When the dish was finally in front of him, Bert huffed and scooped the entire thing into his mouth at once before Reiner could stop him. He'd choked and coughed the ring clear across the dining hall. As Reiner hunted for it on his hands and knees, Bert, for some reason convinced that it'd been a tooth, kept crying, _Ew, Reiner, no! I don't want to see it! Reiner, stop!_

He'd still thought the pearl was a tooth when Reiner located it and knelt with it, and had promptly slapped it out of his hands again.

Much later, when the sticky, abused ring was finally on Bert's finger, he'd admitted tearfully that he thought Reiner was going to break up with him. That was when he'd fetched his own ring from his dresser drawer—a pearl as well, baroque, with a sinuous gold band—and slid it onto Reiner's finger with his warm, wet mouth. They made love three times that night and took the next few days off, sleeping in each other's arms and eating in bed and kissing each other until their lips were bruised.

Reiner frowns. He has no idea what Marco and Jean's post-engagement celebration is going to look like. It's not like he spends all day imagining his friends getting it on, but now that he's thinking of it, he can't even picture the two of them doing any more than nervous hand-holding. "Have the two of you ever kissed?" he asks, inadvertently interrupting Sasha, who quiets to hear Marco's reply.

"Er. No," says Marco, his cheeks reddening.

"You've gotten close, though."

"Uhhhh."

"Held hands?"

Marco scratches the side of his nose and smiles sheepishly.

"Oh my god," says Sasha. "This is going to be the most virginal wedding in the history of forever."

"No, but Marco's done it before," says Connie. "In England. Right? You did it in England?"

"I mean, I was in London for _business_ ," Marco sputters. "It was a disabled caregiver program; I spent most of my time with my charge, who was a seventy-four-year-old man named Pixis! Why would I want to be—M-Mister Pixis? I was—I was _working_ —"

Reiner's fucking delighted to watch Marco work himself up into a panic, so he leans back, getting himself comfortable—but that's when he notices Bert's body language. Bert's sitting up way too straight, eyes focused somewhere in the distance. Confused, Reiner follows his gaze through the café's plate glass windows. Passersby congest the sidewalk, a blur of quick-moving people with shopping bags, their early-summer clothes splashes of color against the gray brick facing of old downtown. Nothing out of the ordinary. Reiner looks back at Bert—and is horrified to see that he's shaking.

"Bert?" he says quietly, reaching for his shoulder. "Are you—"

Bertolt's chair screeches back. He pushes out and away from the table in one frantic move, rattling all the place settings, and disappears into the back of the restaurant before anyone even has time to react. Reiner is the first to stand, struggling to blink back his shock.

"What was that?" he demands, hands raised. "What just happened?"

"Did I say something?" asks Marco, panicked.

"He saw something outside," says Sasha. Her eyes are dark and sharp, focused.

Reiner's mind races. What the fuck could've upset him that much? Bert has no tangible phobias, no nonsexual triggers that Reiner knows of. Bert wasn't just startled, he was fucking terrified. It makes Reiner's blood run cold. He's never seen Bert look that hurt before, that frightened, except—except maybe the night when he'd been—

"Stay with him," Reiner commands Marco, and bolts out the door.

Out on the pavement, only his impulses lead him: he turns left instead of right, heading toward an intersection where a _Do Not Walk_ sign is just beginning to light up. He cuts across the crosswalk. Tires squeal behind him; one man leans out his window to shout. Reiner keeps running.

When he reaches the opposite sidewalk, he wheels around, nerves tingling with adrenaline.

Every instinct of him, every piece of himself that has ever kissed Bertolt's wrists or seen him laugh or cry or held him when he shakes, knows that he is within spitting range of his lover's rapist.

He scans the city block. There's a mother pushing a stroller. A middle-aged man with glasses. Two elementary students flit by, holding melting popsicles. There's a cluster of kids queuing for ice cream who look like they could be Bert's classmates, so Reiner strides up to them, struggling to keep the urgency out of his voice: "Hey," he says, directing his comment to the only young man of the bunch. "You go to Trost Community?"

"No, Military," the guy says, raising a half-hearted fist. "Go unicorns."

Reiner turns away from them, furious, helpless. He searches the street in vain for hoodies bearing the Trost CC logo. It's hopeless. People surge past him in a steady river, their lives still moving, disappearing back into the safety of anonymity. That supernatural, throbbing recognition continues to tremble in Reiner's veins, but there's absolutely nothing he can do here short of picking a fight with every man above the age of seventeen. He stands very still on the sidewalk as the crowd parts around him. For not the first time in the last month, he's moved by the sudden urge to cry.

Instead, he makes his way back to the café.

"Hey, out of order," says Connie, cutting in front of him when he moves toward the restrooms. "Oh—Reiner, where the fuck did you go?"

"He was out there," says Reiner.

"Who?"

"The guy who attacked Bert."

Connie's forehead creases in confusion, then his brows furrow. "I think you're right, man, but all that matters right now is that you get your ass in there. He needs you."

Reiner places his hand on the swinging door, but Connie halts him one more time, dropping his voice.

"He wet his pants," Connie says quietly.

Throat tight, Reiner slips into the restroom. Sasha is standing by the sinks with a cup of water, wringing her hands, and Marco is kneeling near one of the closed stalls, softly singing the theme song of one of the shows Reiner and Bert watch religiously. He stops when Reiner approaches. His eyes are damp, and he scoots aside to let Reiner by.

Just inside the stall, Bert is sobbing in hard, humiliated bursts, heartbreaking in his self-loathing. Through the space at the bottom, Reiner can see him kneeling by the toilet. The smell of vomit and urine permeate the air.

"Hi, baby," says Reiner softly, leaning against the door. "Let me in?"

"I can't," Bert gasps. "I can't, Reiner—"

"Bertolt. I love you so much. Please let me in."

After an agonizingly long moment, the latch clicks and the door creaks open. Reiner sits down on the tile and gathers Bert in his arms without hesitation, closing his own eyes against the sting of tears as Bert buries his face in the crook of his neck and cries. His shoulders are shaking. Reiner strokes his back as Marco shrugs off his plaid overshirt and hands it to them, and Reiner drapes it across the stain on Bert's lap, fastening it loosely around his waist. "Shhh," he soothes. "Shhh, baby, I've got you. You're okay. Everything's okay."

"He was just _walking_ ," Bert says, choking for breath. "H-he was just—w-walking there, like nothing happened, l-like he—like he didn't—"

He waits for Bert to finish, but he dissolves again instead, gripping Reiner brutally tight. Reiner presses his nose to Bert's hair and breathes in his soft, clean scent, tears prickling in his clenched eyes.

"Let's go home, baby," he says.

"No!" Bert sobs. "No, please don't make me move!"

"Bert, sweetheart, we need to get you to a safe place."

"Please, Reiner—I can't, I _can't_ —"

Reiner stands up and tries to coax Bert with him, but Bert resists, staying on the ground with his knees pressed tightly to his chest. His face is red with embarrassment and terror. Reiner has never seen Bertolt this frightened, and he's powerless against it, standing there next to Marco with one hand clasped helplessly over his trembling lips. _What do we do_? he mouths, and Marco shakes his head with equal despair. For a long time, no one moves, and the sound of Bert's sobs echos against the bathroom walls.

Then Connie's voice rises minutely outside as someone makes their way into the restroom.

Reiner knows her brisk, agile steps anywhere. Her crisp scent precedes her. She pushes between him and Marco and offers Bert her small, steady hand, letting her overnight bag fall to the floor with a soft _pat_.

"Bertolt Hoover," says Annie calmly. "Stand up."

It takes him a few seconds to catch his breath, but as soon as he does, he places his hand in hers. Tenderly, so tenderly, Annie helps him to his feet. When he's at his full height, she takes his other hand and squeezes, then rises to her very tiptoes to lay a soft, dry kiss along his trembling jawline. Her cool eyes flash hot with adoration. She doesn't look at his stained pants as he sobs, resting her hands on his cheeks and swiping away the tears as they fall.

"Let's go home," she says gently.

They do.


End file.
